THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 

FOR  THE 
ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


STRICTLY  BUSINESS 


BY   THE    SAME    AUTHOR 


Roads  of  Destiny,  Cabbages  and  Kings,  The  Foul 

Million,  The  Trimmed  Lamp,  Heart  of  the 

West,  The   Voice  of  the  City,  The 

Gentle  Grafter,  Options 


Major  (by  misplaced  courtesy)  w  enticorth  C'asicell. 


STRICTLY 
BUSINESS 

MORE  STORIES  OF  THE 
FOUR  MILLION 

BY 

O.    HENRY 

Author  of  "  The  Four  Million,"  "  The  Voice  of 

the  City,"  "  The   Trimmed  Lamp"  " Sixes 

and    Sevens,"    "  Whirligigs,"    Etc. 


PUBLISHED  BT 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOB 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 
1916 


ALL   EIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING    THAT    OF   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,    INCLUDING  THE    SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,    1910,    BY    DOUBLED*?,    PAG«    ft   COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     STRICTLY  BUSINESS 3 

II.     THE  GOLD  THAT  GLITTERED 21 

III.  BABES  IN  THE  JUNGLE      .      .      .      .      .      .      34 

IV.  THE  DAY  RESURGENT       .......     43 

V.  THE  FIFTH  WHEEL     ........     51 

VI.  THE  POET  AND  THE  PEASANT      .....     73 

VII.  THE  ROBE  OF  PEACE         ......      83 

VIII.  THE  GIRL  AND  THE  GRAFT    ......     00 

IX.     THE  CALL  OF  THE  TAME 100 

X.     THE  UNKNOWN  QUANTITY 100 

XI.     THE  THING'S  THE  PLAY 118 

XII.  A  RAMBLE  IN  APHASIA     .......   130 

XIII.  A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT       ......   148 

XIV.  PSYCHE  AND  THE  PSKYSCRAPER    .     :.      .      .173 
XV.     A  BIRD  OF  BAGDAD 183 

XVI.  COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE  SEASON     ....   104 

XVII.     A  NIGHT  IN  NEW  ARABIA 209 

XVIII.  THE  GIRL  AND  THE  HABIT    .      .      .      k      .231 

XIX.     PROOF  OF  THE  PUDDING 240 

XX.     PAST  ONE  AT  RODNEY'S 255 

XXI.     THE  VENTURERS 276 

XXII.     THE  DUEL 294 

XXIII.  "WHAT  You  WANT"                                      .   302 


STRICTLY  BUSINESS 


STRICTLY    BUSINESS 

I  SUPPOSE  you  know  all  about  the  stage  and  stage 
people.  You've  been  touched  with  and  by  actors,  and 
you  read  the  newspaper  criticisms  and  the  jokes  in  the 
weeklies  about  the  Rialto  and  the  chorus  girls  and  the 
long-haired  tragedians.  And  I  suppose  that  a  con- 
densed list  of  your  ideas  about  the  mysterious  stageland 
would  boil  down  to  something  like  this : 

Leading  ladies  have  five  husbands,  paste  diamonds, 
and  figures  no  better  than  your  own  (madam)  if  they 
weren't  padded.  Chorus  girls  are  inseparable  from 
peroxide,  Panhards  and  Pittsburg.  All  shows  walk 
back  to  New  York  on  tan  oxford  and  railroad  ties.  Irre- 
proachable actresses  reserve  the  comic-landlady  part  for 
their  mothers  on  Broadway  and  their  step-aunts  on  the 
road.  Kyrle  Bellew's  real  name  is  Boyle  O'Kelley. 
The  ravings  of  John  McCullough  in  the  phonograph 
were  stolen  from  the  first  sale  of  the  Ellen  Terry  mem- 
oirs. Joe  Weber  is  funnier  than  E.  H.  Sothern;  but 
Henry  Miller  is  getting  older  than  he  was. 

All  theatrical  people  on  leaving  the  theatre  at  night 
drink  champagne  and  eat  lobsters  until  noon  the  next 


4  Strictly  Business 

day.  After  all,  the  moving  pictures  have  got  the  whole 
bunch  pounded  to  a  pulp. 

Now,  few  of  us  know  the  real  life  of  the  stage  people. 
If  we  did,  the  profession  might  be  more  overcrowded 
than  it  is.  We  look  askance  at  the  players  with  an  eye 
full  of  patronizing  superiority  —  and  we  go  home  and 
practise  all  sorts  of  elocution  and  gestures  in  front  of 
our  looking  glasses. 

Latterly  there  has  been  much  talk  of  the  actor  people 
in  a  new  light.  It  seems  to  have  been  divulged  that  in- 
stead of  being  motoring  bacchanalians  and  diamond- 
hungry  loreleis  they  are  businesslike  folk,  students  and 
ascetics  with  childer  and  homes  and  libraries,  owning  real 
estate,  and  conducting  their  private  affairs  in  as  orderly 
and  unsensational  a  manner  as  any  of  us  good  citizens 
who  are  bound  to  the  chariot  wheels  of  the  gas,  rent,  coal, 
ice,  and  wardmen. 

Whether  the  old  or  the  new  report  of  the  sock-and* 
buskiners  be  the  true  one  is  a  surmise  that  has  no  place 
here.  I  offer  you  merely  this  little  story  of  two  stroll- 
ers ;  and  for  proof  of  its  truth  I  can  show  you  only  the 
dark  patch  above  the  cast-iron  handle  of  the  stage-en- 
trance door  of  Keetor's  old  vaudeville  theatre  made  there 
by  the  petulant  push  of  gloved  hands  too  impatient  to 
finger  the  clumsy  thumb-latch  —  and  where  I  last  saw 
Cherry  whisking  through  like  a  swallow  into  her  nest,  on 
time  to  the  minute,  as  usual,  to  dress  for  her  act. 

The  vaudeville  team  of  Hart  &  Cherry  was  an  inspira- 


Strictly  Business  5 

tion.  Bob  Hart  had  been  roaming  through  the  Eastern 
and  Western  circuits  for  four  years  with  a  mixed-up  act 
comprising  a  monologue,  three  lightning  changes  with 
songs,  a  couple  of  imitations  of  celebrated  imitators, 
and  a  buck-and-wing  dance  that  had  drawn  a  glance  of 
approval  from  the  bass-viol  player  in  more  than  one 
house  —  than  which  no  performer  ever  received  more 
satisfactory  evidence  of  good  work. 

The  greatest  treat  an  actor  can  have  is  to  witness  the 
pitiful  performance  with  which  all  other  actors  desecrate 
the  stage.  In  order  to  give  himself  this  pleasure  he  will 
often  forsake  the  sunniest  Broadway  corner  between 
Thirty-fourth  and  Forty-fourth  to  attend  a  matinee  of- 
fering by  his  less  gifted  brothers.  Once  during  the  life- 
time of  a  minstrel  joke  one  comes  to  scoff  and  remains 
to  go  through  with  that  most  difficult  exercise  of  Thes- 
pian muscles- — the  audible  contact  of  the  palm  of  one 
hand  against  the  palm  of  the  other. 

One  afternoon  Bob  Hart  presented  his  solvent,  serious, 
well-known  vaudevillian  face  at  the  box-office  window  of 
a  rival  attraction  and  got  his  d.  h.  coupon  for  an  orches- 
tra seat. 

A,  B,  C,  and  D  glowed  successively  on  the  announce- 
ment spaces  and  passed  into  oblivion,  each  plunging  Mr. 
Hart  deeper  into  gloom.  Others  of  the  audience 
shrieked,  squirmed,  whistled  and  applauded;  but  Bob 
Hart,  "  All  the  Mustard  and  a  Whole  Show  in  Himself," 
sat  with  his  face  as  long  and  his  hands  as  far  apart  as 


6  Strictly  Business 

a  boy  holding  a  hank  of  yarn  for  his  grandmother  to 
wind  into  a  ball. 

But  when  H  came  on,  "  The  Mustard  "  suddenly  sat 
up  straight.  H  was  the  happy  alphabetical  prognosti- 
cator  of  Winona  Cherry,  in  Character  Songs  and  Im- 
personations. There  were  scarcely  more  than  two  bites 
to  Cherry ;  but  she  delivered  the  merchandise  tied  with  a 
pink  cord  and  charged  to  the  old  man's  account.  She 
first  showed  you  a  deliciously  dewy  and  ginghamy  coun- 
try girl  with  a  basket  of  property  daisies  who  informed 
you  ingenuously  that  there  were  other  things  to  be 
learned  at  the  old  log  school-house  besides  cipherin*  and 
nouns,  especially  "  When  the  Teach-er  Kept  Me  in." 
Vanishing,  with  a  quick  flirt  of  gingham  apron-strings, 
she  reappeared  in,  considerably  less  than  a  "  trice  "  as  a 
fluffy  "  Parisienne  " —  so  near  does  Art  bring  the  old 
red  mill  to  the  Moulin  Rouge.  And  then  — 

But  you  know  the  rest.  And  so  did  Bob  Hart;  but 
he  saw  somebody  else.  He  thought  he  saw  that  Cherry 
was  the  only  professional  on  the  short  order  stage  that  he 
had  seen  who  seemed  exactly  to  fit  the  part  of  "  Helen 
Grimes  "  in  the  sketch  he  had  written  and  kept  tucked 
away  in  the  tray  of  his  trunk.  Of  course  Bob  Hart, 
as  well  as  every  other  normal  actor,  grocer,  newspaper 
man,  professor,  curb  broker,  and  farmer,  has  a  play 
tucked  away  somewhere.  They  tuck  'em  in  trays  of 
trunks,  trunks  of  trees,  desks,  haymows,  pigeonholes,  in- 
side pockets,  safe-deposit  vaults,  bandboxes,  and  coal 


Strictly  "Business  7 

cellars,  waiting  for  Mr.  Frohman  to  call.  They  belong 
among  the  fifty-seven  different  kinds. 

But  Bob  Hart's  sketch  was  not  destined  to  end  in  a 
pickle  jar.  He  called  it  "  Mice  Will  Play."  He  had 
kept  it  quiet  and  hidden  away  ever  since  he  wrote  it, 
waiting  to  find  a  partner  who  fitted  his  conception  of 
"  Helen  Grimes."  And  here  was  "  Helen  "  herself,  with 
all  the  innocent  abandon,  the  youth,  the  sprightliness, 
and  the  flawless  stage  art  that  his  critical  taste  de- 
manded. 

After  the  act  was  over  Hart  found  the  manager  in  the 
box  office,  and  got  Cherry's  address.  At  five  the  next 
afternoon  he  called  at  the  musty  old  house  in  the  West 
Forties  and  sent  up  his  professional  card. 

By  daylight,  in  a  secular  shirtwaist  and  plain  voile 
skirt,  with  her  hair  curbed  and  her  Sister  of  Charity  eyes, 
Winona  Cherry  might  have  been  playing  the  part  of 
Prudence  Wise,  the  deacon's  daughter,  in  the  great  (un- 
written) New  England  drama  not  yet  entitled  any- 
thing. 

"  I  know  your  act,  Mr.  Hart,"  she  said  after  she  had 
looked  over  his  card  carefully.  "  What  did  you  wish  to 
see  me  about  ?  " 

"  I  saw  you  work  last  night,"  said  Hart.  "  I've  writ- 
ten a  sketch  that  I've  been  saving  up.  It's  for  two  ;  and 
I  think  you  can  do  the  other  part.  I  thought  I'd  see  you 
about  it." 

"  Come  in  the  parlor,"  said  Miss  Cherry.     "  I've  been 


8  Strictly  Business 

wishing  for  something  of  the  sort.  I  think  I'd  like  to 
act  instead  of  doing  turns." 

Bob  Hart  drew  his  cherished  "Mice  Will  Play" 
from  his  pocket,  and  read  it  to  her. 

"  Read  it  again,  please,"  said  Miss  Cherry. 

And  then  she  pointed  out  to  him  clearly  how  it  could 
be  improved  by  introducing  a  messenger  instead  of  a 
telephone  call,  and  cutting  the  dialogue  just  before  the 
climax  while  they  were  struggling  with  the  pistol,  and 
by  completely  changing  the  lines  and  business  of  Helen 
Grimes  at  the  point  where  her  jealousy  overcomes  her. 
Hart  yielded  to  all  her  strictures  without  argument. 
She  had  at  once  put  her  finger  on  the  sketch's  weaker 
points.  That  was  her  woman's  intuition  that  he  had 
lacked.  At  the  end  of  their  talk  Hart  was  willing  to 
stake  the  judgment,  experience,  and  savings  of  his  four 
years  of  vaudeville  that  "  Mice  Will  Play  "  would  blos- 
som into  a  perennial  flower  in  the  garden  of  the  circuits. 
Miss  Cherry  was  slower  to  decide.  After  many  puck- 
erings  of  her  smooth  young  brow  and  tappings  on  her 
small,  white  teeth  with  the  end  of  a  lead  pencil  she  gave 
out  her  dictum. 

"  Mr.  Hart,"  said  she,  "  I  believe  your  sketch  is  going 
to  win  out.  That  Grimes  part  fits  me  like  a  shrinkable 
flannel  after  its  first  trip  to  a  handless  hand  laundry.  I 
can  make  it  stand  out  like  the  colonel  of  the  Forty-fourth 
Regiment  at  a  Little  Mothers'  Bazaar.  And  Pve  seen 
you  work.  I  know  what  you  can  do  with  the  other  part. 


Strictly  Business  9 

But  business  is  business.  How  much  do  you  get  a  week 
for  the  stunt  you  do  now?  " 

"  Two  hundred,"  answered  Hart. 

"  I  get  one  hundred  for  mine,"  said  Cherry.  "  That's 
about  the  natural  discount  for  a  woman.  But  I  live  on 
it  and  put  a  few  simoleons  every  week  under  the  loose 
brick  in  the  old  kitchen  hearth.  The  stage  is  all  right. 
I  love  it;  but  there's  something  else  I  love  better  — 
that's  a  little  country  home,  some  day,  with  Plymouth 
Rock  chickens  and  six  ducks  wandering  around  the 
yard. 

"  Now,  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Hart,  I  am  STRICTLY  BUSI- 
NESS. If  you  want  me  to  play  the  opposite  part  in 
your  sketch,  I'll  do  it.  And  I  believe  we  can  make  it 
go.  And  there's  something  else  I  want  to  say :  There's 
no  nonsense  in  my  make-up;  I'm  on  the  level^  and  I'm 
on  the  stage  for  what  it  pays  me,  just  as  other  girls 
work  in  stores  and  offices.  I'm  going  to  save  my  money 
to  keep  me  when  I'm  past  doing  my  stunts.  No  Old 
Ladies'  Home  or  Retreat  for  Imprudent  Actresses  for 
me. 

"  If  you  want  to  make  this  a  business  partnership, 
Mr.  Hart,  with  all  nonsense  cut  out  of  it,  I'm  in  on  it. 
I  know  something  about  vaudeville  teams  in  general; 
but  this  would  have  to  be  one  in  particular.  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I'm  on  the  stage  for  what  I  can  cart  away 
from  it  every  pay-day  in  a  little  manila  envelope  with 
nicotine  stains  on  it,  where  the  cashier  has  licked  the 


10  Strictly  Business 


It's  kind  of  a  hobby  of  mine  to  want  to  craven- 
ette  myself  for  plenty  of  rainy  days  in  the  future.  I 
Want  you  to  know  just  how  I  am.  I  don't  know  what 
an  all-night  restaurant  looks  like;  I  drink  only  weak 
tea;  I  never  spoke  to  a  man  at  a  stage  entrance  in  my 
life,  and  I've  got  money  in  five  savings  banks." 

"  Miss  Cherry,"  said  Bob  Hart  in  his  smooth,  serious 
tones,  "  you're  in  on  your  own  terms.  I've  got {  strictly 
business  '  pasted  in  my  hat  and  stenciled  on  my  make-up 
box.  When  I  dream  of  nights  I  always  see  a  five-room 
bungalow  on  the  north  shore  of  Long  Island,  with  a  Jap 
cooking  clam  broth  and  duckling  in  the  kitchen,  and  me 
with  the  title  deeds  to  the  place  in  my  pongee  coat  pocket, 
swinging  in  a  hammock  on  the  side  porch,  reading  Stan- 
leys *  Explorations  into  Africa.'  And  nobody  else 
around.  You  never  was  interested  in  Africa,  was  you, 
Miss  Cherry  ?  " 

"  Not  any,"  said  Cherry.  "  What  I'm  going  to  do 
with  my  money  is  to  bank  it.  You  can  get  four  per 
cent,  on  deposits.  Even  at  the  salary  I've  been  earning, 
I've  figured  out  that  in  ten  years  I'd  have  an  income  of 
about  $50  a  month  just  from  the  interest  alone.  Well, 
I  might  invest  some  of  the  principal  in  a  little  business 
—  say,  trimming  hats  or  a  beauty  parlor,  and  make 
more." 

"  Well,"  said  Hart,  "  you've  got  the  proper  idea  all 
right,  all  right,  anyhow.  There  are  mighty  few  actors 
that  amount  to  anything  at  all  who  couldn't  fix  them- 


Strictly  Business  11 

selves  for  the  wet  days  to  come  if  they'd  save  their 
money  instead  of  blowing  it.  I'm  glad  you've  got  the 
correct  business  idea  of  it,  Miss  Cherry.  I  think  the 
same  way ;  and  I  believe  this  sketch  will  more  than  dou- 
ble what  both  of  us  earn  now  when  we  get  it  shaped  up." 

The  subsequent  history  of  "  Mice  Will  Play " 
is  the  history  of  all  successful  writings  for  the  stage. 
Hart  &  Cherry  cut  it,  pieced  it,  remodeled  it,  performed 
surgical  operations  on  the  dialogue  and  business, 
changed  the  lines,  restored  'em,  added  more,  cut  'em  out, 
renamed  it,  gave  it  back  the  old  name,  rewrote  it,  sub- 
stituted a  dagger  for  the  pistol,  restored  the  pistol  — 
put  the  sketch  through  all  the  known  processes  of  con- 
densation and  improvement. 

They  rehearsed  it  by  the  old-fashioned  boarding- 
house  clock  in  the  rarely  used  parlor  until  its  warning 
click  at  five  minutes  to  the  hour  would  occur  every  time 
exactly  half  a  second  before  the  click  of  the  unloaded 
revolver  that  Helen  Grimes  used  in  rehearsing  the  thrill- 
ing climax  of  the  sketch. 

Yes,  that  was  a  thriller  and  a  piece  of  excellent  work. 
In  the  act  a  real  32-caliber  revolver  was  used  loaded 
with  a  real  cartridge.  Helen  Grimes,  who  is  a  Western 
girl  of  decidedly  Buffalo  Billish  skill  and  daring,  is  tem- 
pestuously in  love  with  Frank  Desmond,  the  private  sec- 
retary and  confidential  prospective  son-in-law  of  her 
father,  "  Arapahoe  "  Grimes,  quarter-million-dollar  cat- 
tle king,  owning  a  ranch  that,  judging  by  the  scenery, 


12  Strictly  Business 

is  in  either  the  Bad  Lands  or  Amagansett,  L.  I.  Des- 
mond (in  private  life  Mr.  Bob  Hart)  wears  puttees  and 
Meadow  Brook  Hunt  riding  trousers,  and  gives  his  ad- 
dress as  New  York,  leaving  you  to  wonder  why  he  comes 
to  the  Bad  Lands  or  Amagansett  (as  the  case  may  be) 
and  at  the  same  time  to  conjecture  mildly  why  a  cattle- 
man should  want  puttees  about  his  ranch  with  a  secretary 
in  'em. 

Well,  anyhow,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  we  all 
like  that  kind  of  play,  whether  we  admit  it  or  not  — 
something  along  in  between  "  Bluebeard,  Jr.,"  and 
"  Cymbeline  "  played  in  the  Russian. 

There  were  only  two  parts  and  a  half  in  "  Mice  Will 
Play."  Hart  and  Cherry  were  the  two,  of  course ;  and 
the  half  was  a  minor  part  always  played  by  a  stage 
hand,  who  merely  came  in  once  in  a  Tuxedo  coat  and  a 
panic  to  announce  that  the  house  was  surrounded  by 
Indians,  and  to  turn  down  the  gas  fire  in  the  grate  by 
the  manager's  orders. 

There  was  another  girl  in  the  sketch  —  a  Fifth 
Avenue  society  swelless  —  who  was  visiting  the  ranch 
and  who  had  sirened  Jack  Valentine  when  he  was  a 
wealthy  club-man  on  lower  Third  Avenue  before  he  lost 
his  money.  This  girl  appeared  on  the  stage  only  in 
the  photographic  state  —  Jack  had  her  Sarony  stuck  up 
on  the  mantel  of  the  Amagan  —  of  the  Bad  Lands  dror- 
ing  room.  Helen  was  jealous,  of  course. 


Strictly  Business  13 

And  now  for  the  thriller.  Old  "  Arapahoe  "  Grimes 
dies  of  angina  pectoris  one  night  —  so  Helen  informs  us 
in  a  stage-ferryboat  whisper  over  the  footlights  — 
while  only  his  secretary  was  present.  And  that  same 
day  he  was  known  to  have  had  $647,000  in  cash  in  his 
(ranch)  library  just  received  for  the  sale  of  a  drove  of 
beeves  in  the  East  (that  accounts  for  the  prices  we  pay 
for  steak!).  The  cash  disappears  at  the  same  time. 
Jack  Valentine  was  the  only  person  with  the  ranchman 
when  he  made  his  (alleged)  croak. 

"  Gawd  knows  I  love  him  ;  but  if  he  has  done  this  deed 
— "  you  sabe,  don't  you?  And  then  there  are  some 
mean  things  said  about  the  Fifth  Avenue  Girl  —  who 
doesn't  come  on  the  stage  —  and  can  we  blame  her,  with 
the  vaudeville  trust  holding  down  prices  until  one  actu- 
ally must  be  buttoned  in  the  back  by  a  call  boy,  maid'' 
cost  so  much? 

But,  wait.  Here's  the  climax.  Helen  Grimes, 
chaparralish  as  she  can  be,  is  goaded  beyond  imprudence. 
She  convinces  herself  that  Jack  Valentine  is  not  only  a 
falsetto,  but  a  financier.  To  lose  at  one  fell  swoop 
$647,000  and  a  lover  in  riding  trousers  with  angles  in 
the  sides  like  the  variations  on  the  chart  of  a  typhoid- 
fever  patient  is  enough  to  make  any  perfect  lady  mad. 
So,  then ! 

They  stand  in  the  (ranch)  library,  which  is  furnished 
with  mounted  elk  heads  (didn't  the  Elks  have  a  fish  fry 


14  Strictly  Business 

in  Amagansett  once?),  and  the  denouement  begins.  I 
know  of  no  more  interesting  time  in  the  run  of  a  play 
unless  it  be  when  the  prologue  ends. 

Helen  thinks  Jack  has  taken  the  money.  Who  else 
was  there  to  take  it?  The  box-office  manager  was  at  the 
front  on  his  job;  the  orchestra  hadn't  left  their  seats; 
and  no  man  could  get  past  "  Old  Jimmy,"  the  stage 
door-man,  unless  he  could  show  a  Skye  terrier  or  an 
automobile  as  a  guarantee  of  eligibility. 

Goaded  beyond  imprudence  (as  before  said),  Helen 
says  to  Jack  Valentine :  "  Robber  and  thief  —  and 
worse  yet,  stealer  of  trusting  hearts,  this  should  be  your 
fate!" 

With  that  out  she  whips,  of  course,  the  trusty  32-cal- 
iber. 

"  But  I  will  be  merciful,"  goes  on  Helen.  "  You  shall 
live  —  that  will  be  your  punishment.  I  will  show  you 
how  easily  I  could  have  sent  you  to  the  death  that  you 
deserve.  There  is  her  picture  on  the  mantel.  I  will 
send  through  her  more  beautiful  face  the  bullet  that 
should  have  pierced  your  craven  heart." 

And  she  does  it.  And  there's  no  fake  blank  car- 
tridges or  assistants  pulling  strings.  Helen  fires.  The 
bullet  —  the  actual  bullet  —  goes  through  the  face  of 
the  photograph  —  and  then  strikes  the  hidden  spring  of 
the  sliding  panel  in  the  wall  —  and  lo !  the  panel  slides, 
and  there  is  the  missing  $647,000  in  convincing  stacks 
of  currency  and  bags  of  gold.  It's  great.  You  kn«v 


Strictly  Business  15 

how  it  is.  Cherry  practised  for  two  months  at  a  target 
on  the  roof  of  her  boarding  house.  It  took  good  shoot- 
ing. In  the  sketch  she  had  to  hit  a  brass  disk  only 
three  inches  in  diameter,  covered  by  wall  paper  in  the 
panel;  and  she  had  to  stand  in  exactly  the  same  spot 
every  night,  and  the  photo  had  to  be  in  exactly  the  same 
spot,  and  she  had  to  shoot  steady  and  true  every  time. 

Of  course  old  "  Arapahoe "  had  tucked  the  funds 
away  there  in  the  secret  place ;  and,  of  course,  Jack 
hadn't  taken  anything  except  his  salary  (which  really 
might  have  come  under  the  head  of  "  obtaining  money 
under " ;  but  that  is  neither  here  nor  there)  ;  and,  of 
course,  the  New  York  girl  was  really  engaged  to  a  con- 
crete house  contractor  in  the  Bronx;  and,  necessarily, 
Jack  and. Helen  ended  in  a  half -Nelson  —  and  there  you 
are. 

After  Hart  and  Cherry  had  gotten  "  Mice  Will  Play  " 
flawless,  they  had  a  try-out  at  a  vaudeville  house  that 
accommodates.  The  sketch  was  a  house  wrecker.  It 
was  one  of  those  rare  strokes  of  talent  that  inundates 
a  theatre  from  the  roof  down.  The  gallery  wept; 
and  the  orchestra  seats,  being  dressed  for  it,  swam  in 
tears. 

After  the  show  the  booking  agents  signed  blank  checks 
and  pressed  fountain  pens  upon  Hart  and  Cherry.  Five 
hundred  dollars  a  week  was  what  it  panned  out. 

That  night  at  11.30  Bob  Hart  took  off  his  hat  and 
bade  Cherry  good  night  at  her  boarding-house  door. 


16  Strictly  Business 

"  Mr.  Hart,"  said  she  thoughtfully,  "  come  inside  just 
a  few  minutes.  We've  got  our  chance  now  to  make 
good  and  to  make  money.  What  we  want  to  do  is  to  cut 
expenses  every  cent  we  can,  and  save  all  we  can." 

"  Right,"  said  Bob.  "  It's  business  with  me.  You've 
got  your  scheme  for  banking  yours ;  and  I  dream  every 
night  of  that  bungalow  with  the  Jap  cook  and  nobody 
around  to  raise  trouble.  Anything  to  enlarge  the  net 
receipts  will  engage  my  attention." 

"  Come  inside  just  a  few  minutes,"  repeated  Cherry, 
deeply  thoughtful.  "  I've  got  a  proposition  to  make  to 
you  that  will  reduce  our  expenses  a  lot  and  help  you 
work  out  your  own  future  and  help  me  work  out  mine 
' — and  all  on  business  principles." 

"  Mice  Will  Play  "  had  a  tremendously  successful  run 
in  New  York  for  ten  weeks  —  rather  neat  for  a  vaude- 
ville sketch  —  and  then  it  started  on  the  circuits.  With- 
out following  it,  it  may  be  said  that  it  was  a  solid  draw- 
ing card  for  two  years  without  a  sign  of  abated 
popularity.  ^.^ 

Sam  Packard,  manager  of  one  of  Sector's  New  York 
houses,  said  of  Hart  &  Cherry  ? 

"  As  square  and  high-toned  a  little  team  as  ever  came 
over  the  circuit.  It's  a  pleasure  to  read  their  names  on 
the  booking  list.  Quiet,  hard  workers,  no  Johnny  and 
Mabel  nonsense,  on  the  job  to  the  minute,  straight  home 
after  their  act,  and  each  of  'em  as  gentlemanlike  as  a 


Strictly  Business  17 

lady.  I  don't  expect  to  handle  any  attractions  that  give 
me  less  trouble  or  more  respect  for  the  profession." 

And  now,  after  so  much  cracking  of  a  nutshell,  here 
is  the  kernel  of  the  story : 

At  the  end  of  its  second  season  "  Mice  Will  Play  " 
came  back  to  New  York  for  another  run  at  the  roof  gar- 
dens and  summer  theatres.  There  was  never  any  trou- 
ble in  booking  it  at  the  top-notch  price.  Bob  Hart  had 
his  bungalow  nearly  paid  for,  and  Cherry  had  so  many 
savings-deposit  bank  books  that  she  had  begun  to  buy 
sectional  bookcases  on  the  instalment  plan  to  hold  them. 

I  tell  you  these  things  to  assure  you,  even  if  you  can't 
believe  it,  that  many,  very  many  of  the  stage  people 
are  workers  with  abiding  ambitions  —  j  ust  the  same  as 
the  man  who  wants  to  be  president,  or  the  grocery  clerk 
who  wants  a  home  in  Flatbush,  or  a  lady  who  is  anxious 
to  flop  out  of  the  Count-pan  into  the  Prince-fire.  And 
I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  say,  without  chipping  into 
the  contribution  basket,  that  they  often  move  in  a  mys- 
terious way  their  wonders  to  perform. 

But,  listen. 

At  the  first  performance  of  "  Mice  Will  Play  "  in  New- 
York  at  the  new  Westphalia  (no  hams  alluded  to)  The- 
atre, Winona  Cherry  was  nervous.  When  she  fired  at 
the  photograph  of  the  Eastern  beauty  on  the  mantel, 
the  bullet,  instead  of  penetrating  the  photo  and  thea 
striking  the  disk,  went  into  the  lower  left  side  of  Bob 
Hart's  neck.  Not  expecting  to  get  it  there,  Hart  col- 


18  Strictly  Business 

lapsed  neatly,  while  Cherry  fainted  in  a  most  artistic 
manner. 

The  audience,  surmising  that  they  viewed  a  comedy 
instead  of  a  tragedy  in  which  the  principals  were  married 
or  reconciled,  applauded  with  great  enjoyment.  The 
Cool  Head,  who  always  graces  such  occasions,  rang  the 
curtain  down,  and  two  platoons  of  scene  shifters  re- 
spectively and  more  or  less  respectfully  removed  Hart  & 
Cherry  from  the  stage.  The  next  turn  went  on,  and  all 
went  as  merry  as  an  alimony  bell. 

The  stage  hands  found  a  young  doctor  at  the  stage 
entrance  who  was  waiting  for  a  patient  with  a  decoction 
of  Am.  B'ty  roses.  The  doctor  examined  Hart  carefully 
and  laughed  heartily. 

"  No  headlines  for  you,  Old  Sport,"  was  his  diagno- 
sis. "  If  it  had  been  two  inches  to  the  left  it  would 
have  undermined  the  carotid  artery  as  far  as  the  Red 
Front  Drug  Store  in  Flatbush  and  Back  Again.  As  it 
is,  you  just  get  the  property  man  to  bind  it  up  with  a 
flounce  torn  from  any  one  of  the  girls'  Valenciennes  and 
go  home  and  get  it  dressed  by  the  parlor-floor  practi- 
tioner on  your  block,  and  you'll  be  all  right.  Excuse 
me;  I've  got  a  serious  case  outside  to  look  after." 

After  that  Bob  Hart  looked  up  and  felt  better.  And 
then  to  where  he  lay  came  Vincente,  the  Tramp  Juggler, 
great  in  his  line.  Vincente,  a  solemn  man  from  Brattle- 
boro,  Vt.,  named  Sam  Griggs  at  home,  sent  toys  and 
maple  sugar  home  to  two  small  daughters  from  every 


Strictly  Business  19 

town  he  played.  Vincente  had  moved  on  the  same  cir- 
cuits with  Hart  &  Cherry,  and  was  their  peripatetic 
friend. 

"  Bob,"  said  Vincente  in  his  serious  way,  "  I'm  glad 
it's  no  worse.  The  little  lady  is  wild  about  you." 

"Who?  "asked  Hart. 

"  Cherry,"  said  the  juggler.  "  We  didn't  know  how 
bad  you  were  hurt ;  and  we  kept  her  away.  It's  taking 
the  manager  and  three  girls  to  hold  her." 

"  It  was  an  accident,  of  course,"  said  Hart.  "  Cher- 
ry's all  right.  She  wasn't  feeling  in  good  trim  or  she 
couldn't  have  done  it.  There's  no  hard  feelings.  She's 
strictly  business.  The  doctor  says  I'll  be  on  the  job 
again  in  three  days.  Don't  let  her  worry." 

"  Man,"  "said  Sam  Griggs  severely,  puckering  his  old, 
smooth,  h'ned  face,  "  are  you  a  chess  automaton  or  a 
human  pincushion?  Cherry's  crying  her  heart  out  for 
you  —  calling  *  Bob,  Bob,'  every  second,  with  them  hold- 
ing her  hands  and  keeping  her  from  coming  to  you." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  her?  "  asked  Hart,  with 
wide-open  eyes.  "  The  sketch'll  go  on  again  in  three 
days.  I'm  not  hurt  bad,  the  doctor  says.  She  won't 
lose  out  half  a  week's  salary.  I  know  it  was  an  acci- 
dent. What's  the  matter  with  her?  " 

"  You  seem  to  be  blind,  or  a  sort  of  a  fool,"  said  Vin- 
cente. "  The  girl  loves  you  and  is  almost  mad  about 
your  hurt.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Is  she  noth- 
ing to  you?  I  wish  you  could  hear  her  call  you." 


20  Strictly  Business 

"  Loves  me  ?  "  asked  Bob  Hart,  rising  from  the  stack 
of  scenery  on  which  he  lay.  "  Cherry  loves  me?  Why, 
it's  impossible." 

"  I  wish  you  could  see  her  and  hear  her,"  said  Griggs. 

"  But,  man,"  said  Bob  Hart,  sitting  up,  "  it's  impossi- 
ble. It's  impossible,  I  tell  you.  I  never  dreamed  of 
such  a  thing." 

"  No  human  being,"  said  the  Tramp  Juggler,  "  could 
mistake  it.  She's  wild  for  love  of  you.  How  have  you 
been  so  blind?  " 

"  But,  my  God,"  said  Bob  Hart,  rising  to  his  feet, 
"  it's  too  late.  It's  too  late,  I  tell  you,  Sam ;  it's  too  late. 
It  can't  be.  You  must  be  wrong.  It's  impossible. 
There's  some  mistake." 

"  She's  crying  for  you,"  said  the  Tramp  Juggler. 
"  For  love  of  you  she's  fighting  three,  and  calling  your 
name  so  loud  they  don't  dare  to  raise  the  curtain.  Wake 
up,  man." 

"For  love  of  me?  "  said  Bob  Hart  with  staring  eyes. 
"  Don't  I  tell  you  it's  too  late  ?  It's  too  late,  man. 
Why,  Cherry  and  I  have  been  married  two  years!  " 


A  STORY  with  a  moral  appended  is  like  the  bill  of  a 
mosquito.  It  bores  you,  and  then  injects  a  stinging 
drop  to  irritate  your  conscience.  Therefore  let  us  have 
the  moral  first  and  be  done  with  it.  All  is  not  gold  that 
glitters,  but  it  is  a  wise  child  that  keeps  the  stopper  in 
his  bottle  of  testing  acid. 

Where  Broadway  skirts  the  corner  of  the  square  pre- 
sided over  by  George  the  Veracious  is  the  Little  Rialto. 
Here  stand  the  actors  of  that  quarter,  and  this  is  their 
shibboleth:  "  *  Nit,'  says  I  to  Frohman,  'you  can't 
touch  me  for  a  kopeck  less  than  two-fifty  per,'  and  out  I 
walks." 

Westward  and  southward  from  the  Thespian  glare  are 
one  or  two  streets  where  a  Spanish- American  colony  has 
huddled  for  a  little  tropical  warmth  in  the  nipping 
North.  The  centre  of  life  in  this  precinct  is  "  El 
Refugio,"  a  cafe  and  restaurant  that  caters  to  the  vola- 
tile exiles  from  the  South.  Up  from  Chili,  Bolivia, 
Colombia,  the  rolling  republics  of  Central  America  and 
the  ireful  islands  of  the  Western  Indies  flit  the  cloaked 
and  sombreroed  senores,  who  are  scattered  like  burning 
lava  by  the  political  eruptions  of  their  several  countries. 

21 


22  Strictly  Business 

Hither  they  come  to  lay  counterplots,  to  bide  their  time, 
to  solicit  funds,  to  enlist  filibusterers,  to  smuggle  out 
arms  and  ammunitions,  to  play  the  game  at  long  taw. 
In  El  Refugio  they  find  the  atmosphere  in  which  they 
thrive. 

In  the  restaurant  of  El  Refugio  are  served  compounds 
delightful  to  the  palate  of  the  man  from  Capricorn  or 
Cancer.  Altruism  must  halt  the  story  thus  long.  On, 
diner,  weary  of  the  culinary  subterfuges  of  the  Gallic 
chef,  hie  thee  to  El  Refugio !  There  only  will  you  find 
a  fish  —  bluefish,  shad  or  pompano  from  the  Gulf — ' 
baked  after  the  Spanish  method.  Tomatoes  give  it 
color,  individuality  and  soul ;  chili  Colorado  bestows  upon 
it  zest,  originality  and  fervor;  unknown  herbs  furnish 
piquancy  and  mystery,  and  —  but  its  crowning  glory 
deserves  a  new  sentence.  Around  it,  above  it,  beneath 
it,  in  its  vicinity  —  but  never  in  it  —  hovers  an  ethereal 
aura,  an  effluvium  so  rarefied  and  delicate  that  only  the 
Society  for  Psychical  Research  could  note  its  origin.  Do 
not  say  that  garlic  is  in  the  fish  at  El  Refugio.  It  is  not 
otherwise  than  as  if  the  spirit  of  Garlic,  flitting  past,  has 
wafted  one  kiss  that  lingers  in  the  parsley-crowned  dish 
as  haunting  as  those  kisses  in  life,  "  by  hopeless  fancy 
feigned  on  lips  that  are  for  others."  And  then,  when 
Conchito,  the  waiter,  brings  you  a  plate  of  brown  frijoles 
and  a  carafe  of  wine  that  has  never  stood  still  between 
Oporto  and  El  Refugio  —  ah,  Dios ! 


The  Gold  That  Glittered  23 

One  day  a  Hamburg-American  liner  deposited  upon 
Pier  No.  55  Gen.  Perrico  Ximenes  Villablanca  Falcon, 
a  passenger  from  Cartagena.  The  General  was  between 
a  claybank  and  a  bay  in  complexion,  had  a  42-inch  waist 
and  stood  5  feet  4  with  his  Du  Barry  heels.  He  had  the 
mustache  of  a  shooting-gallery  proprietor,  he  wore  the 
full  dress  of  a  Texas  congressman  and  had  the  important 
aspect  of  an  uninstructed  delegate. 

Gen.  Falcon  had  enough  English  under  his  hat  to  en- 
able him  to  inquire  his  way  to  the  street  in  which  El 
Refugio  stood.  When  he  reached  that  neighborhood  he 
saw  a  sign  before  a  respectable  red-brick  house  that  read, 
"  Hotel  Espanol."  In  the  window  was  a  card  in  Span- 
ish, "  Aqui  se  habla  Espanol."  The  General  entered, 
sure  of  a  congenial  port. 

In  the  cozy  office  was  Mrs.  O'Brien,  the  proprietress. 
She  had  blond  —  oh,  unimpeachably  blond  hair.  For 
the  rest  she  was  amiability,  and  ran  largely  to  inches 
around.  Gen.  Falcon  brushed  the  floor  with  his  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  and  emitted  a  quantity  of  Spanish,  the 
syllables  sounding  like  firecrackers  gently  popping  their 
way  down  the  string  of  a  bunch. 

"  Spanish  or  Dago?  "  asked  Mrs.  O'Brien,  pleasantly. 

"  I  am  a  Colombian,  madam,"  said  the  General, 
proudly.  "  I  speak  the  Spanish.  The  advisement  in 
your  window  say  the  Spanish  he  is  spoken  here.  How  is 
that?  " 


24  Strictly  Business 

"  Well,  you've  been  speaking  it,  ain't  you  ?  "  said  the 
madam.  "  I'm  sure  I  can't" 

At  the  Hotel  Espanol  General  Falcon  engaged  rooms 
and  established  himself.  At  dusk  he  sauntered  out  upon 
the  streets  to  view  the  wonders  of  this  roaring  city  of 
the  North.  As  he  walked  he  thought  of  the  wonderful 
golden  hair  of  Mme.  O'Brien.  "  It  is  here,"  said  the 
General  to  himself,  no  doubt  in  his  own  language,  "  that 
one  shall  find  the  most  beautiful  senoras  in  the  world. 
I  have  not  in  my  Colombia  viewed  among  our  beauties 
one  so  fair.  But  no !  It  is  not  for  the  General  Falcon 
to  think  of  beauty.  It  is  my  country  that  claims  my 
devotion." 

At  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  the  Little  Rialto  the 
General  became  involved.  The  street  cars  bewildered 
him,  and  the  fender  of  one  upset  him  against  a  pushcart 
laden  with  oranges.  A  cab  driver  missed  him  an  inch 
with  a  hub,  and  poured  barbarous  execrations  upon  his 
head.  He  scrambled  to  the  sidewalk  and  skipped  again 
in  terror  when  the  whistle  of  a  peanut-roaster  puffed  a 
hot  scream  into  his  ear.  "  Valgame  Dios !  What  dev- 
il's city  is  this  ?  " 

As  the  General  fluttered  out  of  the  streamers  of  pass- 
ers like  a  wounded  snipe  he  was  marked  simultaneously 
as  game  by  two  hunters.  One  was  "  Bully  "  McGuire, 
whose  system  of  sport  required  the  use  of  a  strong  arm 
and  the  misuse  of  an  eight-inch  piece  of  lead  pipe.  The 


The  Gold  TJwt  GUttered  25 

other  Nimrod  of  the  asphalt  was  "  Spider "  Kelley,  a 
sportsman  with  more  refined  methods. 

In  pouncing  upon  their  self-evident  prey,  Mr.  Kelley 
was  a  shade  the  quicker.  His  elbow  fended  accurately 
the  onslaught  of  Mr.  McGuire. 

"  G'wan ! "  he  commanded  harshly.  u  I  saw  it  first." 
McGuire  slunk  away,  awed  by  superior  intelligence. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Kelley,  to  the  General,  "  but 
you  got  balled  up  in  the  shuffle,  didn't  you?  Let  me 
assist  you."  He  picked  up  the  General's  hat  and 
brushed  the  dust  from  it. 

The  ways  of  Mr.  Kelley  could  not  but  succeed.  The 
General,  bewildered  and  dismayed  by  the  resounding 
streets,  welcomed  his  deliverer  as  a  caballero  with  a  most 
disinterested  heart. 

"  I  have  a  desire,"  said  the  General,  "  to  return  to  the 
hotel  of  O'Brien,  in  which  I  am  stop.  Caramba !  senor, 
there  is  a  loudness  and  rapidnesa  of  going  and  coming 
in  the  city  of  this  Nueva  York." 

Mr.  Kelley's  politeness  would  not  suffer  the  distin- 
guished Colombian  to  brave  the  dangers  of  the  return 
unaccompanied.  At  the  door  of  the  Hotel  Kspariol 
they  paused.  A  little  lower  down  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street  shone  the  modest  illuminated  sign  of  El 
Refugio.  Mr.  Kelley,  to  whom  few  streets  were  un- 
familiar, knew  the  place  exteriorly  as  a  "  Dago  joint." 
All  foreigners  Mr.  Kelley  classed  under  the  two  heads  of 


26  Strictly  Business 

"  Dagoes  "  and  Frenchmen.  He  proposed  to  the  Gen- 
eral that  they  repair  thither  and  substantiate  their  ac- 
quaintance with  a  liquid  foundation. 

An  hour  later  found  General  Falcon  and  Mr.  Kelley 
seated  at  a  table  in  the  conspirator's  corner  of  El  Refu- 
gio.  Bottles  and  glasses  were  between  them.  For  the 
tenth  time  the  General  confided  the  secret  of  his  mission 
to  the  Estados  Unidos.  He  was  here,  he  declared,  to 
purchase  arms  —  2,000  stands  of  Winchester  rifles  — 
for  the  Colombian  revolutionists.  He  had  drafts  in  his 
pocket  drawn  by  the  Cartagena  Bank  on  its  New  York 
correspondent  for  $25,000.  At  other  tables  other  rev- 
olutionists were  shouting  their  political  secrets  to  their 
fellow-plotters ;  but  none  was  as  loud  as  the  General. 
He  pounded  the  table;  he  hallooed  for  some  wine;  he 
roared  to  his  friend  that  his  errand  was  a  secret  one,  and 
not  to  be  hinted  at  to  a  living  soul.  Mr.  Kelley  himself 
was  stirred  to  sympathetic  enthusiasm.  He  grasped  the 
General's  hand  across  the  table. 

"  Monseer,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  I  don't  know  where 
this  country  of  yours  is,  but  I'm  for  it.  I  guess  it  must 
be  a  branch  of  the  United  States,  though,  for  the  poetry 
guys  and  the  schoolmarms  call  us  Columbia,  too,  some- 
times. It's  a  lucky  thing  for  you  that  you  butted  into 
me  to-night.  I'm  the  only  man  in  New  York  that  can 
get  this  gun  deal  through  for  you.  The  Secretary  of 
War  of  the  United  States  is  me  best  friend.  He's  in 
the  city  now,  and  I'll  see  him  for  you  to-morrow.  In 


The  Gold  That  Glittered  27 

the  meantime,  monseer,  you  keep  them  drafts  tight  in 
jour  inside  pocket.  I'll  call  for  you  to-morrow,  and 
take  you  to  see  him.  Say!  that  ain't  the  District  of 
Columbia  you're  talking  about,  is  it?  "  concluded  Mr. 
Kelley,  with  a  sudden  qualm.  "  You  can't  capture  that 
with  no  2,000  guns  —  it's  been  tried  with  more." 

"  No,  no,  no ! "  exclaimed  the  General.  "  It  is  the 
Republic  of  Colombia  — •  it  is  a  g-r-reat  republic  on  the 
top  side  of  America  of  the  South.  Yes.  Yes." 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Kelley,  reassured.  "  Now 
suppose  we  trek  along  home  and  go  by-by.  I'll  write 
to  the  Secretary  to-night  and  make  a  date  with  him. 
It's  a  ticklish  job  to  get  guns  out  of  New  York.  Mc- 
Clusky  himself  can't  do  it." 

They  parted  at  the  door  of  the  Hotel  Espanol.  The 
General  rolled  his  eyes  at  the  moon  and  sighed. 

"  It  is  a  great  country,  your  Nueva  York,"  he  said. 
"  Truly  the  cars  in  the  streets  devastate  one,  and  the 
engine  that  cooks  the  nuts  terribly  makes  a  squeak  in  the 
ear.  But,  ah,  Senor  Kelley  —  the  senoras  with  hair  of 
much  goldness,  and  admirable  fatness  —  they  are  mag- 
nificas  !  Muy  magnificas  !  " 

Kelley  went  to  the  nearest  telephone  booth  and  called 
up  McCrary's  cafe,  far  up  on  Broadway  He  asked  for 
Jimmy  Dunn. 

"  Is  that  Jimmy  Dunn  ?  "  asked  Kelley. 

"  Yes,"  came  the  answer. 

"  You're     a     liar,"     sang     back     Kelley,     joyfully. 


28  Strictly  Business 

"  You're  the  Secretary  of  War.  Wait  there  till  I  comt 
up.  I've  got  the  finest  thing  down  here  in  the  way  of  a 
fish  you  ever  baited  for.  It's  a  Colorado-maduro,  with 
a  gold  band  around  it  and  free  coupons  enough  to  buy 
a  red  hall  lamp  and  a  statuette  of  Psyche  rubbering  in 
the  brook.  Fll  be  up  on  the  next  car." 

Jimmy  Dunn  was  an  A.  M.  of  Crookdom.  He  was 
an  artist  in  the  confidence  line.  He  never  saw  a  blud- 
geon in  his  life;  and  he  scorned  knockout  drops.  In 
fact,  he  would  have  set  nothing  before  an  intended  vic- 
tim but  the  purest  of  drinks,  if  it  had  been  possible  to 
procure  such  a  thing  in  New  York.  It  was  the  ambi- 
tion of  "  Spider  "  Kelley  to  elevate  himself  into  Jimmy's 
class. 

These  two  gentlemen  held  a  conference  that  night  at 
McCrary's.  Kelley  explained. 

"  He's  as  easy  as  a  gum  shoe.  He's  from  the  Island 
of  Colombia,  where  there's  a  strike,  or  a  feud,  or  some- 
thing going  on,  and  they've  sent  him  up  here  to  buy 
S,000  Winchesters  to  arbitrate  the  thing  with.  He 
showed  me  two  drafts  for  $10,000  each,  and  one  for 
$5,000  on  a  bank  here.  'S  truth,  Jimmy,  I  felt  real  mad 
with  him  because  he  didn't  have  it  in  thousand-dollar 
bills,  and  hand  it  to  me  on  a  silver  waiter.  Now,  we've 
got  to  wait  till  he  goes  to  the  bank  and  gets  the  money 
for  us." 

They  talked  it  over  for  two  hours,  and  then  Dunn 


The  Gold  That  Glittered  29 

said :  "  Bring  him  to  No.  —  Broadway,  at  four  o'clock 
to-morrow  afternoon." 

In  due  time  Kelley  called  at  the  Hotel  Espailol  for  the 
General.  He  found  that  wily  warrior  engaged  in  de- 
lectable conversation  with  Mrs.  O'Brien. 

"  The  Secretary  of  War  is  waitin'  for  us,"  said  Kel- 
ley. 

The  General  tore  himself  away  with  an  effort. 

"  Ay,  senor,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  duty  makes  a 
call.  But,  senor,  the  senoras  of  your  Estados  Unidos 

—  how    beauties!     For    exemplification,    take    you    la 
Madame  O'Brien  —  que  magnifica !     She  is  one  goddess 

—  one  Juno  —  what  you  call  one  ox-eyed  Juno." 

Now  Mr.  Kelley  was  a  wit ;  and  better  men  have  been 
shriveled  by  the  fire  of  their  own  imagination. 

"  Sure !  "  he  said  with  a  grin ;  "  but  you  mean  a  perox- 
ide Juno,  don't  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  O'Brien  heard,  and  lifted  an  auriferous  head* 
Her  businesslike  eye  rested  for  an  instant  upon  the  dis- 
appearing form  of  Mr.  Kelley.  Except  in  street  cars 
one  should  never  be  unnecessarily  rude  to  a  lady. 

When  the  gallant  Colombian  and  his  escort  arrived  at 
the  Broadway  address,  they  were  held  in  an  anteroom 
for  half  an  hour,  and  then  admitted  into  a  well-equipped 
office  where  a  distinguished  looking  man,  with  a  smooth 
face,  wrote  at  a  desk.  General  Falcon  was  presented  to 
the  Secretary  of  War  of  the  United  States,  and  his  mis- 
sior  made  known  by  his  old  friend,  Mr.  Kelley. 


30  Strictly  Business 

"  Ah  —  Colombia !  "  said  the  Secretary,  significantly, 
when  he  was  made  to  understand ;  "  I'm  afraid  there  will 
be  a  little  difficulty  in  that  case.  The  President  and  I 
differ  in  our  sympathies  there.  He  prefers  the  estab- 
lished government,  while  I — "  the  secretary  gave  the 
General  a  mysterious  but  encouraging  smile.  "  You,  of 
course,  know,  General  Falcon,  that  since  the  Tammany 
war,  an  act  of  Congress  has  been  passed  requiring  all 
manufactured  arms  and  ammunition  exported  from  this 
country  to  pass  through  the  War  Department.  Now, 
if  I  can  do  anything  for  you  I  will  be  glad  to  do  so  to 
oblige  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Kelley.  But  it  must  be  in 
absolute  secrecy,  as  the  President,  as  I  have  said,  does 
not  regard  favorably  the  efforts  of  your  revolutionary 
party  in  Colombia.  I  will  have  my  orderly  bring  a  list 
of  the  available  arms  now  in  the  warehouse." 

The  Secretary  struck  a  bell,  and  an  orderly  with  the 
letters  A.  D.  T.  on  his  cap  stepped  promptly  into  the 
room. 

"  Bring  me  Schedule  B  of  the  small  arms  inventory," 
said  the  Secretary. 

The  orderly  quickly  returned  with  a  printed  paper. 
The  Secretary  studied  it  closely. 

"  I  find,"  he  said,  "  that  in  Warehouse  9,  of  Govern- 
ment stores,  there  is  a  shipment  of  2,000  stands  of 
Winchester  rifles  that  were  ordered  by  the  Sultan  of 
Morocco,  who  forgot  to  send  the  cash  with  his  order. 
Our  rule  is  that  legal-tender  money  must  be  paid  down  at 


The  Gold  That  Glittered  31 

the  time  of  purchase.  My  dear  Kelley,  your  friend, 
General  Falcon,  shall  have  this  lot  of  arms,  if  he  desires 
it,  at  the  manufacturer's  price.  And  you  will  forgive 
me,  I  am  sure,  if  I  curtail  our  interview.  I  am  expect- 
ing the  Japanese  Minister  and  Charles  Murphy  every 
moment ! " 

As  one  result  of  this  interview,  the  General  was  deeply 
grateful  to  his  esteemed  friend,  Mr.  Kelley.  As  another, 
the  nimble  Secretary  of  War  was  extremely  busy  during 
the  next  two  days  buying  empty  rifle  cases  and  filling 
them  with  bricks,  which  were  then  stored  in  a  warehouse 
rented  for  that  purpose.  As  still  another,  when  the  Gen- 
eral returned  to  the  Hotel  Espanol,  Mrs.  O'Brien  went 
up  to  him,  plucked  a  thread  from  his  lapel,  and  said: 

"  Say,  senor,  I  don't  want  to  '  butt  in,'  but  what  does 
that  monkey-faced,  cat-eyed,  rubber-necked  tin  horn 
tough  want  with  you  ?  " 

"  Sangre  de  mi  vida !  "  exclaimed  the  General.  "  Im- 
possible it  is  that  you  speak  of  my  good  friend,  Senor 
Kelley." 

"  Come  into  the  summer  garden,"  said  Mrs.  O'Brien. 
"  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  you." 

Let  us  suppose  that  an  hour  has  elapsed. 

"  And  you  say,"  said  the  General,  "  that  for  the  sum 
of  $18,000  can  be  purchased  the  furnishment  of  the 
house  and  the  lease  of  one  year  with  this  garden  so 
lovely  —  so  resembling  unto  the  patios  of  my  care 
Colombia?  " 


32  Strictly  Business 

"  And  dirt  cheap  at  that,"  sighed  the  lady. 

"  Ah,  Dios ! w  breathed  General  Falcon.  "  What  to 
me  is  war  and  politics?  This  spot  is  one  paradise. 
My  country  it  har«  other  brave  heroes  to  continue  the 
fighting.  What  to  me  should  be  glory  and  the  shooting 
of  mans  ?  Ah !  no.  It  is  here  I  have  found  one  angel. 
Let  us  buy  the  Hotel  Espafiol  and  you  shall  be  mine, 
and  the  money  shall  not  be  waste  on  guns." 

Mrs.  O'Brien  rested  her  blond  pompadour  against 
the  shoulder  of  the  Colombian  patriot. 

"  Oh,  senor,"  she  sighed,  happily,  "  ain't  you  ter- 
rible!" 

Two  days  later  was  the  time  appointed  for  the  de- 
livery of  the  arms  to  the  General  The  boxes  of  sup- 
posed rifles  were  stacked  in  the  rented  warehouse,  and 
the  Secretary  of  War  sat  upon  them,  waiting  for  his 
friend  Kelley  to  fetch  the  victim. 

Mr.  Kelley  hurried,  at  the  hour,  to  the  Hotel  Es- 
pafiol. He  found  the  General  behind  the  desk  adding 
up  accounts. 

"  I  have  decide,"  said  the  General,  *  to  buy  not  guns. 
I  have  to-day  buy  the  insides  of  this  hotel,  and  there 
shall  be  marrying  of  the  General  Perrico  Ximenes  Villa- 
blanca  Falcon  with  la  Madame  O'Brien." 

Mr.  Kelly  almost  strangled. 

"  Say,  you  old  bald-headed  bottle  of  shoe  polish,"  he 
spluttered,  "you're  a  swindler  —  that's  what  you  are! 


The  Gold  That  Glittered  33 

You've  bought  a  boarding  house  with  money  belonging 
to  your  infernal  country,  wherever  it  is." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  General,  footing  up  a  column,  "  that 
is  what  you  call  politics.  War  and  revolution  they  are 
not  nice.  Yes.  It  is  not  best  that  one  shall  always  fol- 
low Minerva.  No.  It  is  of  quite  desirable  to  keep 
hotels  and  be  with  that  Juno  —  that  ox-eyed  Juno. 
Ah !  what  hair  of  the  gold  it  is  that  she  have !  " 

Mr.  Kelley  choked  again. 

"  Ah,  Senor  Kelley ! "  said  the  General,  feelingly  and 
finally,  "  is  it  that  you  have  never  eaten  of  the  corned 
beef  hash  that  Madame  O'Brien  she  make?  " 


Ill 

BABES  IN  THE  JUNGLE 

MONTAGUE  SILVER,  the  finest  street  man  and  art 
grafter  in  the  West,  says  to  me  once  in  Little  Rock: 
"  If  you  ever  lose  your  mind,  Billy,  and  get  too  old  to 
do  honest  swindling  among  grown  men,  go  to  New  York. 
In  the  West  a  sucker  is  born  every  minute ;  but  in  New 
York  they  appear  in  chunks  of  roe  —  you  can't  count 
'em!" 

Two  years  afterward  I  found  that  I  couldn't  remem- 
ber the  names  of  the  Russian  admirals,  and  I  noticed 
some  gray  hairs  over  my  left  ear;  so  I  knew  the  time 
had  arrived  for  me  to  take  Silver's  advice. 

I  struck  New  York  about  noon  one  day,  and  took  a 
walk  up  Broadway.  And  I  run  against  Silver  himself, 
all  encompassed  up  in  a  spacious  kind  of  haberdashery, 
leaning  against  a  hotel  and  rubbing  the  half -moons  on 
his  nails  with  a  silk  handkerchief. 

"  Paresis  or  superannuated  ?  "  I  asks  him. 

"  Hello,  Billy,"  says  Silver ;  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
Yes,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  West  was  accumulating  a 
little  too  much  wiseness.  I've  been  saving  New  York 
for  dessert.  I  know  it's  a  low-down  trick  to  take  things 

34 


Babes  in  the  Jungle  35 

from  these  people.  They  only  know  this  and  that  and 
pass  to  and  fro  and  think  ever  and  anon.  I'd  hate  for 
my  mother  to  know  I  was  skinning  these  weak-minded 
ones.  She  raised  me  better." 

"  Is  there  a  crush  already  in  the  waiting  rooms  of 
the  old  doctor  that  does  skin  grafting?  "  I  asks. 

"  Well,  no,"  says  Silver ;  "  you  needn't  back  Epi- 
dermis to  win  to-day.  I've  only  been  here  a  month. 
But  I'm  ready  to  begin ;  and  the  members  of  Willie 
Manhattan's  Sunday  School  class,  each  of  whom  has 
volunteered  to  contribute  a  portion  of  cuticle  toward 
this  rehabilitation,  may  as  well  send  their  photos  to  the 
Evening  Dally. 

"  I've  been  studying  the  town,"  says  Silver,  "  and 
reading  the  papers  every  day,  and  I  know  it  as  well  as 
the  cat  in  the  City  Hall  knows  an  O'Sullivan.  People 
here  lie  down  on  the  floor  and  scream  and  kick  when  you 
are  the  least  bit  slow  about  taking  money  from  them. 
Come  up  in  my  room  and  I'll  tell  you.  We'll  work  the 
town  together,  Billy,  for  the  sake  of  old  times." 

Silver  takes  me  up  in  a  hotel.  He  has  a  quantity  of 
irrelevant  objects  lying  about. 

"  There's  more  ways  of  getting  money  from  these 
metropolitan  hayseeds,"  says  Silver,  "  than  there  is  of 
cooking  rice  in  Charleston,  S.  C.  They'll  bite  at  any- 
thing. The  brains  of  most  of  'em  commute.  The 
wiser  they  are  in  intelligence  the  less  perception  of 
cognizance  they  have.  Why,  didn't  a  man  the  other 


36  Strictly  Business 

day  sell  J.  P.  Morgan  an  oil  portrait  of  Rockefeller, 
Jr.,  for  Andrea  del  Sarto's  celebrated  painting  of  the 
young  Saint  John! 

"  You  see  that  bundle  of  printed  stuff  in  the  corner, 
Billy?  That's  gold  mining  stock.  I  started  out  one 
day  to  sell  that,  but  I  quit  it  in  two  hours.  Why? 
Got  arrested  for  blocking  the  street.  People  fought  to 
buy  it.  I  sold  the  policeman  a  block  of  it  on  the  way  to 
the  station-house,  and  then  I  took  it  off  the  market.  I 
don't  want  people  to  give  me  their  money.  I  want  some 
little  consideration  connected  with  the  transaction  to 
keep  my  pride  from  being  hurt.  I  want  'em  to  guess 
the  missing  letter  in  Chic — go,  or  draw  to  a  pair  of 
nines  before  they  pay  me  a  cent  of  money. 

"  Now  there's  another  little  scheme  that  worked  so 
easy  I  had  to  quit  it.  You  see  that  bottle  of  blue  ink 
on  the  table?  I  tattooed  an  anchor  on  the  back  of  my 
hand  and  went  to  a  bank  and  told  'em  I  was  Admiral 
Dewey's  nephew.  They  offered  to  cash  my  draft  on 
him  for  a  thousand,  but  I  didn't  know  my  uncle's  first 
name.  It  shows,  though,  what  an  easy  town  it  is.  As 
for  burglars,  they  won't  go  in  a  house  now  unless  there's 
a  hot  supper  ready  and  a  few  college  students  to  wait 
on  'em.  They're  slugging  citizens  all  over  the  upper 
part  of  the  city  and  I  guess,  taking  the  town  from  end 
to  end,  it's  a  plain  case  of  assault  and  Battery." 

"  Monty,"  says  I,  when  Silver  had  slacked  up,  "  you 


Babes  in  the  Jungle  37 

may  have  Manhattan  correctly  discriminated  in  your 
perorative,  but  I  doubt  it.  I've  only  been  in  town  two 
hours,  but  it  don't  dawn  upon  me  that  it's  ours  with  a 
cherry  in  it.  There  ain't  enough  rus  in  urbe  about  it 
to  suit  me.  I'd  be  a  good  deal  much  better  satisfied  if 
the  citizens  had  a  straw  or  more  in  their  hair,  an(l  run 
more  to  velveteen  vests  and  buckeye  watch  charms. 
They  don't  look  easy  to  me." 

"You've  got  it,  Billy,"  says  Silver.  "All  emi- 
grants have  it.  New  York's  bigger  than  Little  Rock  or 
Europe,  and  it  frightens  a  foreigner.  You'll  be  all 
right.  I  tell  you  I  feel  like  slapping  the  people  here 
because  they  don't  send  me  all  their  money  in  laundry 
baskets,  with  germicide  sprinkled  over  it.  I  hate  to  go 
down  on  the  street  to  get  it.  Who  wears  the  diamonds 
in  this  town?  Why,  Winnie,  the  Wiretapper's  wife, 
and  Bella,  the  Buncosteerer's  bride.  New  Yorkers  can 
be  worked  easier  than  a  blue  rose  on  a  tidy.  The  only 
thing  that  bothers  me  is  I  know  I'll  break  the  cigars  in 
my  vest  pocket  when  I  get  my  clothes  all  full  of 
twenties." 

"  I  hope  you  are  right,  Monty,"  says  I ;  "  but  I  wish 
all  the  same  I  had  been  satisfied  with  a  small  business  in 
Little  Rock.  The  crop  of  fanners  is  never  so  short 
out  there  but  what  you  can  get  a  few  of  'em  to  sign  a 
petition  for  a  new  post  office  that  you  can  discount  for 
$200  at  the  county  bank.  The  people  here  appear  to 


38  Strictly  Business 

possess  instincts  of  self-preservation  and  illiberality. 
I  fear  me  that  we  are  not  cultured  enough  to  tackle  this 
game." 

"  Don't  worry,"  says  Silver.  "  I've  got  this  Jay- 
ville-near-Tarrytown  correctly  estimated  as  sure  as 
North  River  is  the  Hudson  and  East  River  ain't  a  river. 
Why,  there  are  people  living  in  four  blocks  of  Broad- 
way who  never  saw  any  kind  of  a  building  except  a 
skyscraper  in  their  lives !  A  good,  live  hustling  West- 
ern man  ought  to  get  conspicuous  enough  here  inside  of 
three  months  to  incur  either  Jerome's  clemency  or  Law- 
son's  displeasure." 

"  Hyperbole  aside,"  says  I,  "  do  you  know  of  any  im- 
mediate system  of  buncoing  the  community  out  of  a 
dollar  or  two  except  by  applying  to  the  Salvation  Army 
or  having  a  fit  on  Miss  Helen  Gould's  doorsteps  ?  " 

"  Dozens  of  'em,"  says  Silver.  "  How  much  capital 
have  you  got,  Billy?  " 

"  A  thousand,"  I  told  him. 

"  I've  got  $1,200,"  says  he.  "  We'll  pool  and  do  a 
big  piece  of  business.  There's  so  many  ways  we  can 
make  a  million  that  I  don't  know  how  to  begin." 

The  next  morning  Silver  meets  me  at  the  hotel  and  he 
is  all  sonorous  and  stirred  with  a  kind  of  silent  joy. 

"  We're  to  meet  J.  P.  Morgan  this  afternoon,"  says 
he.  "  A  man  I  know  in  the  hotel  wants  to  introduce  us. 
He's  a  friend  of  his.  He  says  he  likes  to  meet  people 
from  the  West" 


Babes  in  the  Jungle  39 

"  That  sounds  nice  and  plausible,'*  says  I.  "  I'd  like 
to  know  Mr.  Morgan." 

"  It  won't  hurt  us  a  bit,"  says  Silver,  "  to  get  ac- 
quainted with  a  few  finance  kings.  I  kind  of  like  the 
social  way  New  York  has  with  strangers." 

The  man  Silver  knew  was  named  Klein.  At  three 
o'clock  Klein  brought  his  Wall  Street  friend  to  see  us 
in  Silver's  room.  "  Mr.  Morgan  "  looked  some  like  his 
pictures,  and  he  had  a  Turkish  towel  wrapped  around 
his  left  foot,  and  he  walked  with  a  cane. 

"Mr.  Silver  and  Mr.  Pescud,"  says  Klein.  "It 
sounds  superfluous,"  says  he,  "  to  mention  the  name  of 
the  greatest  financial  — " 

"  Cut  it  out,  Klein,"  says  Mr.  Morgan.  "  I'm  glad 
to  know  you  gents ;  I  take  great  interest  in  the  West. 
Klein  tells  me  you're  from  Little  Rock.  I  think  I've  a 
railroad  or  two  out  there  somewhere.  If  either  of  you 
guys  would  like  to  deal  a  hand  or  two  of  stud  poker 
I—" 

"  Now,  Pierpont,"  cuts  in  Klein,  "  you  forget !  " 

"  Excuse  me,  gents  !  "  says  Morgan ;  "  since  I've  had 
the  gout  so  bad  I  sometimes  play  a  social  game  pf  cards 
at  my  house.  Neither  of  you  never  knew  One-eyed 
Peters,  did  you,  while  you  was  around  Little  Rock? 
He  lived  in  Seattle,  New  Mexico." 

Before  we  could  answer,  Mr.  Morgan  hammers  on 
the  floor  with  his  cane  and  begins  to  walk  up  and  down, 
swearing  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice. 


40  Strictly  Business 

"  They  have  been  pounding  your  stocks  to-day  on 
the  Street,  Pierpont? "  asks  Klein  smiling. 

"Stocks!  No!"  roars  Mr.  Morgan.  "It's  that 
picture  I  sent  an  agent  to  Europe  to  buy.  I  just 
thought  about  it.  He  cabled  me  to-day  that  it  ain't  to 
be  found  in  all  Italy.  I'd  pay  $50,000  to-morrow  for 
that  picture  —  yes,  $75,000.  I  give  the  agent  a  la 
carte  in  purchasing  it.  I  cannot  understand  why  the 
art  galleries  will  allow  a  De  Vinchy  to — " 

"  Why,  Mr.  Morgan,"  says  Klein ;  "  I  thought  you 
owned  all  of  the  de  Vinchy  paintings." 

"What  is  the  picture  like,  Mr.  Morgan?"  asks 
Silver.  "  It  must  be  as  big  as  the  side  of  the  Flatiron, 
Building." 

"  I'm  afraid  your  art  education  is  on  the  bum,  Mr. 
Silver,"  says  Morgan.  "  The  picture  is  27  inches  by 
42 ;  and  it  is  called  '  Love's  Idle  Hour.'  It  represents  a 
number  of  cloak  models  doing  the  two-step  on  the  bank 
of  a  purple  river.  The  cablegram  said  it  might  have 
been  brought  to  this  country.  My  collection  will  never 
be  complete  without  that  picture.  Well,  so  long,  gents ; 
us  financiers  must  keep  early  hours." 

Mr.  Morgan  and  Klein  went  away  together  in  a  caH. 
Me  and  Silver  talked  about  how  simple  and  unsuspect- 
ing great  people  was;  and  Silver  said  what  a  shame  it 
would  be  to  try  to  rob  a  man  like  Mr.  Morgan ;  and  I 
said  I  thought  it  would  be  rather  imprudent,  myself. 
Klein  proposes  a  stroll  after  dinner;  and  me  and  him 


Babes  in  the  Jungle  41 

and  Silver  walks  down  toward  Seventh  Avenue  to  see 
the  sights.  Klein  sees  a  pair  of  cuff  links  that  instigate 
his  admiration  in  a  pawnshop  window,  and  we  all  go  in 
while  he  buys  'em. 

After  we  got  back  to  the  hotel  and  Klein  had  gone, 
Silver  jumps  at  me  and  waves  his  hands. 

"Did  you  see  it?"  says  he.  "Did  you  see  it, 
Billy?" 

"  What?  "  I  asks. 

"  Why,  that  picture  that  Morgan  wants.  It's  hang- 
ing in  that  pawnshop,  behind  the  desk.  I  didn't  say 
anything  because  Klein  was  there.  It's  the  article  sure 
as  you  live.  The  girls  are  as  natural  as  paint  can  make 
them,  all  measuring  36  and  25  and  42  skirts,  if  they 
had  any  skirts,  and  they're  doing  a  buck-and-wing  on 
the  bank  of  a  river  with  the  blues.  What  did  Mr. 
Morgan  say  he'd  give  for  it?  Oh,  don't  make  me  tell 
you.  They  can't  know  what  it  is  in  that  pawnshop." 

When  the  pawnshop  opened  the  next  morning  me  and 
Silver  was  standing  there  as  anxious  as  if  we  wanted  to 
soak  our  Sunday  suit  to  buy  a  drink.  We  sauntered 
inside,  and  began  to  look  at  watch-chains. 

"  That's  a  violent  specimen  of  a  chromo  you've  got 
up  there,"  remarked  Silver,  casual,  to  the  pawnbroker. 
"  But  I  kind  of  enthuse  over  the  girl  with  the  shoulder- 
blades  and  red  bunting.  Would  an  offer  of  $2.25  for 
it  cause  you  to  knock  over  any  fragile  articles  of  your 
stock  in  hurrying  it  off  the  nail?  " 


42  Strictly  Business 

The  pawnbroker  smiles  and  goes  on  showing  us  plate 
watch-chains. 

"  That  picture,"  says  he,  "  was  pledged  a  year  ago 
by  an  Italian  gentleman.  I  loaned  him  $500  on  it.  It 
is  called  '  Love's  Idle  Hour,'  and  it  is  by  Leonardo  de 
Vinchy.  Two  days  ago  the  legal  time  expired,  and  it 
became  an  unredeemed  pledge.  Here  is  a  style  of  chain 
that  is  worn  a  great  deal  now." 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  me  and  Silver  paid  the 
pawnbroker  $2,000  and  walked  out  with  the  picture. 
Silver  got  into  a  cab  with  it  and  started  for  Morgan's 
office.  I  goes  to  the  hotel  and  waits  for  him.  In  two 
hours  Silver  comes  back. 

"  Did  you  see  Mr.  Morgan?  "  I  asks.  "  How  much 
did  he  pay  you  for  it?  " 

Silver  sits  down  and  fools  with  a  tassel  on  the  table 
cover. 

"  I  never  exactly  saw  Mr.  Morgan,"  he  says,  "  be- 
cause Mr.  Morgan's  been  in  Europe  for  a  month.  But 
what's  worrying  me,  Billy,  is  this:  The  department 
stores  have  all  got  that  same  picture  on  sale,  framed, 
for  $3.48.  And  they  charge  $3.50  for  the  frame  alone 
• — that's  what  I  can't  understand." 


IV 
THE  DAY  RESURGENT 

1  CAN  see  the  artist  bite  the  end  of  his  pencil  and 
frown  when  it  comes  to  drawing  his  Easter  picture ;  for 
his  legitimate  pictorial  conceptions  of  figures  pertinent 
to  the  festival  are  but  four  in  number. 

First  comes  Easter,  pagan  goddess  of  spring.  Here 
his  fancy  may  have  free  play.  A  beautiful  maiden  with 
decorative  hair  and  the  proper  number  of  toes  will  fill 
the  bill.  -Miss  Clarice  St.  Vavasour,  the  well-known 
model,  will  pose  for  it  in  the  "  Lethergogallagher,"  or 
whatever  it  was  that  Trilby  called  it. 

Second  —  the  melancholy  lady  with  upturned  eyes  in 
a  framework  of  lilies.  This  is  magazine-covery,  but 
reliable. 

Third  —  Miss  Manhattan  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  Easter 
Sunday  parade. 

Fourth  —  Maggie  Murphy  with  a  new  red  feather  in 
her  old  straw  hat,  happy  and  self-conscious,  in  the 
Grand  Street  turnout. 

Of  course,  the  rabbits  do  not  count.  Nor  the  Easter 
eggs,  since  the  higher  criticism  has  hard-boiled  them. 

The  limited  field  of  its  pictorial  possibilities  proves 

43 


44  Strictly  Business 

that  Easter,  of  all  our  festival  days,  is  the  most  vague 
and  shifting  in  our  conception.  It  belongs  to  all  re- 
ligions, although  the  pagans  invented  it.  Going  back 
still  further  to  the  first  spring,  we  can  see  Eve  choosing 
with  pride  a  new  green  leaf  from  the  tree  ficus  carica. 

Now,  the  object  of  this  critical  and  learned  preamble 
is  to  set  forth  the  theorem  that  Easter  is  neither  a  date, 
a  season,  a  festival,  a  holiday  nor  an  occasion.  What 
it  is  you  shall  find  out  if  you  follow  in  the  footsteps  of 
Danny  McCree. 

Easter  Sunday  dawned  as  it  should,  bright  and  early, 
in  its  place  on  the  calendar  between  Saturday  and  Mon- 
day. At  5.24  the  sun  rose,  and  at  10.30  Danny  fol- 
lowed its  example.  He  went  into  the  kitchen  and 
washed  his  face  at  the  sink.  His  mother  was  frying 
bacon.  She  looked  at  his  hard,  smooth,  knowing  coun- 
tenance as  he  juggled  with  the  round  cake  of  soap,  and 
thought  of  his  father  when  she  first  saw  him  stopping  a 
hot  grounder  between  second  and  third  twenty-two 
years  before  on  a  vacant  lot  in  Harlem,  where  the  La 
Paloma  apartment  house  now  stands.  In  the  front 
room  of  the  flat  Danny's  father  sat  by  an  open  window 
smoking  his  pipe,  with  his  dishevelled  gray  hair  tossed 
about  by  the  breeze.  He  still  clung  to  his  pipe,  al- 
though his  sight  had  been  taken  from  him  two  years 
before  by  a  precocious  blast  of  giant  powder  that  went 
off  without  permission.  Very  few  blind  men  care  for 
smoking,  for  the  reason  that  they  cannot  see  the  smoke. 


The  Day  Resurgent  45 

Now,  could  you  enjoy  having  the  news  read  to  you  from 
an  evening  newspaper  unless  you  could  see  the  colors 
of  the  headlines? 

"  'Tis  Easter  Day,"  said  Mrs.  McCree. 

"  Scramble  mine,"  said  Danny. 

After  breakfast  he  dressed  himself  in  the  Sabbath 
morning  costume  of  the  Canal  Street  importing  house 
dray  chauffeur  —  frock  coat,  striped  trousers,  patent 
leathers,  gilded  trace  chain  across  front  of  vest,  and 
wing  collar,  rolled-brim  derby  and  butterfly  bow  from 
Schonstein's  (between  Fourteenth  Street  and  Tony's 
fruit  stand)  Saturday  night  sale. 

"  You'll  be  goin'  out  this  day,  of  course,  Danny," 
said  old  man  McCree,  a  little  wistfully.  "  'Tis  a  kind 
of  holiday,  they  say.  Well,  it's  fine  spring  weather.  I 
can  feel  it  in  the  air." 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  going  out?  "  demanded  Danny 
in  his  grumpiest  chest  tones.  "  Should  I  stay  in?  Am 
I  as  good  as  a  horse?  One  day  of  rest  my  team  has  a 
week.  Who  earns  the  money  for  the  rent  and  the 
breakfast  you've  just  eat,  I'd  like  to  know?  Answer 
me  that!" 

"  All  right,  lad,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I'm  not  com- 
plainin'.  While  me  two  eyes  was  good  there  was  noth- 
in'  better  to  my  mind  than  a  Sunday  out.  There's  a 
smell  of  turf  and  burnin'  brush  comin'  in  the  windy.  I 
have  me  tobaccy.  A  good  fine  day  and  rist  to  ye,  lad. 
Times  I  wish  your  mother  had  lamed  to  read,  so  I 


46  Strictly  Business 

might  hear  the  rest  about  the  hippopotamus  —  but  let 
that  be." 

"  Now,  what  is  this  foolishness  he  talks  of  hippopota- 
muses ? "  asked  Danny  of  his  mother,  as  he  passed 
through  the  kitchen.  "  Have  you  been  taking  him  to 
the  Zoo?  And  for  what?" 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Mrs.  McCree.  "  He  sets  by  the 
windy  all  day.  'Tis  little  recreation  a  blind  man  among 
the  poor  gets  at  all.  I'm  thinkin'  they  wander  in  their 
minds  at  times.  One  day  he  talks  of  grease  without 
stoppin'  for  the  most  of  an  hour.  I  looks  to  see  if 
there's  lard  burnin'  in  the  fryin'  pan.  There  is  not. 
He  says  I  do  not  understand.  'Tis  weary  days,  Sun- 
days, and  holidays  and  all,  for  a  blind  man,  Danny. 
There  was  no  better  nor  stronger  than  him  when  he  had 
his  two  eyes.  'Tis  a  fine  day,  son.  Injoy  yeself 
ag'inst  the  morning.  There  will  be  cold  supper  at  six." 

"  Have  you  heard  any  talk  of  a  hippopotamus  ?  " 
asked  Danny  of  Mike,  the  janitor,  as  he  went  out  the 
door  downstairs. 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Mike,  pulling  his  shirtsleeves 
higher.  "  But  'tis  the  only  subject  in  the  animal, 
natural  and  illegal  lists  of  outrages  that  I've  not  been 
complained  to  about  these  two  days.  See  the  landlord. 
Or  else  move  out  if  ye  like.  Have  ye  hippopotamuses 
in  the  lease?  No,  then?" 

"  It  was  the  old  man  who  spoke  of  it,"  said  Danny. 
"  Likely  there's  nothing  in  it." 


The  Day  Resurgent  47 

Danny  walked  up  the  street  to  the  Avenue  and  then 
struck  northward  into  the  heart  of  the  district  where 
Easter  —  modern  Easter,  in  new,  bright  raiment — > 
leads  the  pascal  march.  Out  of  towering  brown 
churches  came  the  blithe  music  of  anthems  from  the 
choirs.  The  broad  sidewalks  were  moving  parterres  of 
living  flowers  —  so  it  seemed  when  your  eye  looked 
upon  the  Easter  girl. 

Gentlemen,  frock-coated,  silk-hatted,  gardeniaed, 
sustained  the  background  of  the  tradition.  Children 
carried  lilies  in  their  hands.  The  windows  of  the  brown- 
stone  mansions  were  packed  with  the  most  opulent  crea- 
tions of  Flora,  the  sister  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lilies. 

Around  a  corner,  white-gloved,  pink-gilled  and 
tightly  buttoned,  walked  Corrigan,  the  cop,  shield  to 
the  curb.  Danny  knew  him. 

"  Why,  Corrigan,"  he  asked,  "  is  Easter?  I  know 
it  comes  the  first  time  you're  full  after  the  moon  rises 
on  the  seventeenth  of  March  —  but  why?  Is  it  a 
proper  and  religious  ceremony,  or  does  the  Governor 
appoint  it  out  of  politics  ?  " 

"  'Tis  an  annual  celebration,"  said  Corrigan,  with 
the  judicial  air  of  the  Third  Deputy  Police  Commis- 
sioner, "  peculiar  to  New  York.  It  extends  up  to  Har- 
lem. Sometimes  they  has  the  reserves  out  at  One  Hun- 
dred and  Twenty-fifth  Street.  In  my  opinion  'tis  not 
political." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Danny.     "  And  say  —  did  you  ever 


48  Strictly  "Business 

hear  a  man  complain  of  hippopotamuses?  When  not 
specially  in  drink,  I  mean." 

"  Nothing  larger  than  sea  turtles,"  said  Corrigan, 
reflecting,  "  and  there  was  wood  alcohol  in  that." 

Danny  wandered.  The  double,  heavy  incumbency  of 
enjoying  simultaneously  a  Sunday  and  a  festival  day 
was  his. 

The  sorrows  of  the  hand-toiler  fit  him  easily.  They 
are  worn  so  often  that  they  hang  with  the  picturesque 
lines  of  the  best  tailor-made  garments.  That  is  why 
well-fed  artists  of  pencil  and  pen  find  in  the  griefs  of 
the  common  people  their  most  striking  models.  But 
when  the  Philistine  would  disport  himself,  the  grimness 
of  Melpomene,  herself,  attends  upon  his  capers. 
Therefore,  Danny  set  his  jaw  hard  at  Easter,  and  took 
his  pleasure  sadly. 

The  family  entrance  of  Dugan's  cafe  was  feasible; 
so  Danny  yielded  to  the  vernal  season  as  far  as  a  glass 
of  bock.  Seated  in  a  dark,  linoleumed,  humid  back 
room,  his  heart  and  mind  still  groped  after  the  mysteri- 
ous meaning  of  the  springtime  jubilee. 

"  Say,  Tim,"  he  said  to  the  waiter,  "  why  do  they 
have  Easter?  " 

"  Skiddoo ! "  said  Tim,  closing  a  sophisticated  eye. 
"Is  that  a  new  one?  All  right.  Tony  Pastor's  for 
you  last  night,  I  guess.  I  give  it  up.  What's  the  an- 
swer —  two  apples  or  a  yard  and  a  half?  " 

From  Dugan's  Danny  turned  back  eastward.     The 


The  Day  Resurgent  49 

April  sun  seemed  to  stir  in  him  a  vague  feeling  that  he 
could  not  construe.  He  made  a  wrong  diagnosis  and 
decided  that  it  was  Katy  Conlon. 

A  block  from  her  house  on  Avenue  A  he  met  her 
going  to  church.  They  pumped  hands  on  the  corner. 

"  Gee !  but  you  look  dumpish  and  dressed  up,"  said 
Katy.  "  What's  wrong?  Come  away  with  me  to 
church  and  be  cheerful." 

"  What's  doing  at  church  ?  "  asked  Danny. 

"Why,  it's  Easter  Sunday.  Silly!  I  waited  till 
after  eleven  expectin'  you  might  come  around  to  go." 

"  What  does  this  Easter  stand  for,  Katy,"  asked 
Danny  gloomily.  "  Nobody  seems  to  know." 

"  Nobody  as  blind  as  you,"  said  Katy  with  spirit. 
"  You  haven't  even  looked  at  my  new  hat.  And  skirt. 
Why,  it's  when  all  the  girls  put  on  new  spring  clothes. 
Silly !  Are  you  coming  to  church  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  Danny.  "  If  this  Easter  is  pulled  off 
there,  they  ought  to  be  able  to  give  some  excuse  for  it. 
Not  that  the  hat  ain't  a  beauty.  The  green  roses  are 
great." 

At  church  the  preacher  did  some  expounding  with  no 
pounding.  He  spoke  rapidly,  for  he  was  in  a  hurry  to 
get  home  to  his  early  Sabbath  dinner;  but  he  knew  his 
business.  There  was  one  word  that  controlled  his 
theme  —  resurrection.  Not  a  new  creation ;  but  a  new 
life  arising  out  of  the  old.  The  congregation  had 
heard  it  often  before.  But  there  was  a  wonderful  hat, 


50  Strictly  Business 

a  combination  of  sweet  peas  and  lavender,  in  the  sixth 
pew  from  the  pulpit.  It  attracted  much  attention. 

After  church  Danny  lingered  on  a  corner  while  Katy 
waited,  with  pique  in  her  sky-blue  eyes. 

"  Are  you  coming  along  to  the  house  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  But  don't  mind  me.  I'll  get  there  all  right.  You 
seem  to  be  studyin'  a  lot  about  something.  All  right. 
Will  I  see  you  at  any  time  specially,  Mr.  McCree?  " 

"  I'll  be  around  Wednesday  night  as  usual,"  said 
Danny,  turning  and  crossing  the  street. 

Katy  walked  away  with  the  green  roses  dangling  in- 
dignantly. Danny  stopped  two  blocks  away.  He 
stood  still  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  at  the  curb  on 
the  corner.  His  face  was  that  of  a  graven  image. 
Deep  in  his  soul  something  stirred  so  small,  so  fine,  so 
keen  and  leavening  that  his  hard  fibres  did  not  recog- 
nize it.  It  was  something  more  tender  than  the  April 
day,  more  subtle  than  the  call  of  the  senses,  purer  and 
deeper-rooted  than  the  love  of  woman  —  for  had  he 
not  turned  away  from  green  roses  and  eyes  that  had 
kept  him  chained  for  a  year?  And  Danny  did  not 
know  what  it  was.  The  preacher,  who  was  in  a  hurry 
to  go  to  his  dinner,  had  told  him,  but  Danny  had  had 
no  libretto  with  which  to  follow  the  drowsy  intonation. 
But  the  preacher  spoke  the  truth. 

Suddenly  Danny  slapped  his  leg  and  gave  forth  a 
hoarse  yell  of  delight. 

'*  Hippopotamus ! "  he  shouted  to  an  elevated  road 


The  Day  Resurgent  51 

pillar.  "  Well,  how  is  that  for  a  bum  guess  ?  Why, 
blast  mj  skylights !  I  know  what  he  was  driving  at 
now. 

"  Hippopotamus !  Wouldn't  that  send  you  to  the 
Bronx !  It's  been  a  year  since  he  heard  it ;  and  he 
didn't  miss  it  so  very  far.  We  quit  at  469  B.  C.,  and 
this  comes  next.  Well,  a  wooden  man  wouldn't  have 
guessed  what  he  was  trying  to  get  out  of  him." 

Danny  caught  a  crosstown  car  and  went  up  to  the 
rear  flat  that  his  labor  supported. 

Old  man  McCree  was  still  sitting  by  the  window. 
His  extinct  pipe  lay  on  the  sill. 

"  Will  that  be  you,  lad?  "  he  asked. 

Danny  flared  into  the  rage  of  a  strong  man  who  is 
surprised  at  the  outset  of  committing  a  good  deed. 

"  Who  pays  the  rent  and  buys  the  food  that  is  eaten 
in  this  house  ?  "  he  snapped,  viciously.  "  Have  I  no 
right  to  come  in  ?  " 

"  Ye're  a  faithful  lad,"  said  old  man  McCree,  with  a 
sigh.  "  Is  it  evening  yet?  " 

Danny  reached  up  on  a  shelf  and  took  down  a  thick 
book  labeled  in  gilt  letters,  "  The  History  of  Greece." 
Dust  was  on  it  half  an  inch  thick.  He  laid  it  on  the 
table  and  found  a  place  in  it  marked  by  a  strip  of 
paper.  And  then  he  gave  a  short  roar  at  the  top  of 
his  voice,  and  said: 

"  Was  it  the  hippopotamus  you  wanted  to  be  read  to 
about  then?" 


52  Strictly  Business 

"  Did  I  hear  ye  open  the  book?  "  said  old  man  Mc- 
Cree.  "  Many  and  weary  be  the  months  since  my  lad 
has  read  it  to  me.  I  dinno ;  but  I  took  a  great  likings  to 
them  Greeks.  Ye  left  off  at  a  place.  'Tis  a  fine  day 
outside,  lad.  Be  out  and  take  rest  from  your  work. 
I  have  gotten  used  to  me  chair  by  the  windy  and  me 
pipe." 

"  Pel-Peloponnesus  was  the  place  where  we  left  off, 
and  not  hippopotamus,"  said  Danny.  "  The  war  be- 
gan there.  It  kept  something  doing  for  thirty  years. 
The  headlines  says  that  a  guy  named  Philip  of 
Macedon,  in  338  B.  C.,  got  to  be  boss  of  Greece  by 
getting  the  decision  at  the  battle  of  Cher-Cheronam. 
I'll  read  it." 

With  his  hand  to  his  ear,  rapt  in  the  Peloponnesian 
War,  old  man  McCree  sat  for  an  hour,  listening. 

Then  he  got  up  and  felt  his  way  to  the  door  of  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  McCree  was  slicing  cold  meat.  She 
looked  up.  Tears  were  running  from  old  man  McCree's 
eyes. 

"  Do  ye  hear  our  lad  readin'  to  me  ? "  he  said. 
"  There  is  none  finer  in  the  land.  My  two  eyes  have 
come  back  to  me  again." 

After  supper  he  said  to  Danny :  "  'Tis  a  happy  day, 
this  Easter.  And  now  ye  will  be  off  to  see  Katy  in  the 
evening.  Well  enough." 

"  Who  pays  the  rent  and  buys  the  food  that  is  eaten 
in  this  house?"  said  Danny,  angrily.  "Have  I  no 


The  Day  Resurgent  53 

right  to  stay  in  it?  After  supper  there  is  yet  to  come 
the  reading  of  the  battle  of  Corinth,  146  B.  C.,  when 
the  kingdom,  as  they  say,  became  an  in-integral  portion 
of  the  Roman  Empire.  Am  I  nothing  in  this  house?  " 


THE  FIFTH  WHEEL 

THE  ranks  of  the  Bed  Line  moved  closer  together; 
for  it  was  cold,  cold.  They  were  alluvial  deposit  of 
the  stream  of  life  lodged  in  the  delta  of  Fifth  Avenue 
and  Broadway.  The  Bed  Liners  stamped  their  freez- 
ing feet,  looked  at  the  empty  benches  in  Madison 
Square  whence  Jack  Frost  had  evicted  them,  and  mut- 
tered to  one  another  in  a  confusion  of  tongues.  The 
Flatiron  Building,  with  its  impious,  cloud-piercing 
architecture  looming  mistily  above  them  on  the  opposite 
delta,  might  well  have  stood  for  the  tower  of  Babel, 
whence  these  polyglot  idlers  had  been  called  by  the 
winged  walking  delegate  of  the  Lord. 

Standing  on  a  pine  box  a  head  higher  than  his  flock 
of  goats,  the  Preacher  exhorted  whatever  transient  and 
shifting  audience  the  north  wind  doled  out  to  him.  It 
was  a  slave  market.  Fifteen  cents  bought  you  a  man. 
You  deeded  him  to  Morpheus ;  and  the  recording  angel 
gave  you  credit. 

The  Preacher  was  incredibly  earnest  and  unwearied. 
He  had  looked  over  the  list  of  things  one  may  do  for 
one's  fellow  man,  and  had  assumed  for  himself  the  task 

54 


The  Fifth  Wheel  55 

of  putting  to  bed  all  who  might  apply  at  his  soap  box 
on  the  nights  of  Wednesday  and  Sunday.  That  left 
but  five  nights  for  other  philanthropists  to  handle;  and 
had  they  done  their  part  as  well,  this  wicked  city  might 
have  become  a  vast  Arcadian  dormitory  where  all  might 
snooze  and  snore  the  happy  hours  away,  letting  problem 
plays  and  the  rent  man  and  business  go  to  the  deuce. 

The  hour  of  eight  was  but  a  little  while  past;  sight- 
seers in  a  small,  dark  mass  of  pay  ore  were  gathered 
in  the  shadow  of  General  Worth's  monument.  Now 
and  then,  shyly,  ostentatiously,  carelessly,  or  with  con- 
scientious exactness  one  would  step  forward  and  bestow 
upon  the  Preacher  small  bills  or  silver.  Then  a  lieu- 
tenant of  Scandinavian  coloring  and  enthusiasm  would 
march  away  to  a  lodging  house  with  a  squad  of  the  re- 
deemed. All  the  while  the  Preacher  exhorted  the 
crowd  in  terms  beautifully  devoid  of  eloquence  —  splen- 
did with  the  deadly,  accusive  monotony  of  truth.  Be- 
fore the  picture  of  the  Bed  Liners  fades  you  must  hear 
one  phrase  of  the  Preacher's  —  the  one  that  formed 
his  theme  that  night.  It  is  worthy  of  being  stenciled 
on  all  the  white  ribbons  in  the  world. 

"  No  man  ever  learned  to  be  a  drunkard  on  five-cent 
whisky." 

Think  of  it,  tippler.  It  covers  the  ground  from  the 
sprouting  rye  to  the  Potter's  Field. 

A  clean-profiled,  erect  young  man  in  the  rear  rank 
of  the  bedless  emulated  the  terrapin,  drawing  his  head 


56  Strictly  Business 

far  down  into  the  shell  of  his  coat  collar.  It  was 
a  well-cut  tweed  coat ;  and  the  trousers  still  showed  signs 
of  having  flattened  themselves  beneath  the  compelling 
goose.  But,  conscientiously,  I  must  warn  the  milliner's 
apprentice  who  reads  this,  expecting  a  Reginald 
Montressor  in  straits,  to  peruse  no  further.  The  young 
man  was  no  other  than  Thomas  McQuade,  ex-coachman, 
discharged  for  drunkenness  one  month  before,  and  now 
reduced  to  the  grimy  ranks  of  the  one-night  bed 
seekers. 

If  you  live  in  smaller  New  York  you  must  know  the 
Van  Smuythe  family  carriage,  drawn  by  the  two  1,500- 
pound,  100  to  1-shot  bays.  The  carriage  is  shaped 
like  a  bath-tub.  In  each  end  of  it  reclines  an  old  lady 
Van  Smuythe  holding  a  black  sunshade  the  size  of  a 
New  Year's  Eve  feather  tickler.  Before  his  downfall 
Thomas  McQuade  drove  the  Van  Smuythe  bays  and 
was  himself  driven  by  Annie,  the  Van  Smuythe  lady's 
maid.  But  it  is  one  of  the  saddest  things  about  ro- 
mance that  a  tight  shoe  or  an  empty  commissary  or  an 
aching  tooth  will  make  a  temporary  heretic  of  any 
Cupid-worshiper.  And  Thomas's  physical  troubles 
were  not  few.  Therefore,  his  soul  was  less  vexed  with 
thoughts  of  his  lost  lady's  maid  than  it  was  by  the 
fancied  presence  of  certain  non-existent  things  that  his 
racked  nerves  almost  convinced  him  were  flying,  dan- 
cing, crawling,  and  wriggling  on  the  asphalt  and  in  the 
air  above  and  around  the  dismal  campus  of  the  Bed 


The  Fifth  Wheel  57 

m  \ 

Lane  army.  Nearly  four  weeks  of  straight  whisky  and 
a  diet  limited  to  crackers,  bologna,  and  pickles  often 
quarantees  a  psycho-zoological  sequel.  Thus  desper- 
ate, freezing,  angry,  beset  by  phantoms  as  he  was,  he 
felt  the  need  of  human  sympathy  and  intercourse. 

The  Bed  Liner  standing  at  his  right  was  a  young  man 
of  about  his  own  age,  shabby  but  neat. 

"  What's  the  diagnosis  of  your  case,  Freddy  ? " 
asked  Thomas,  with  the  freemasonic  familiarity  of  the 
damned  —  "Booze?  That's  mine.  You  don't  look 
like  a  panhandler.  Neither  am  I.  A  month  ago  I  was 
pushing  the  lines  over  the  backs  of  the  finest  team  of 
Percheron  buffaloes  that  ever  made  their  mile  down 
Fifth  Avenue  in  2.85.  And  look  at  me  now!  Say; 
how  do  you  come  to  be  at  this  bed  bargain-counter  rum- 
mage sale  ?  " 

The  other  young  man  seemed  to  welcome  the  ad- 
vances of  the  airy  ex-coachman, 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  nrine  isn't  exactly  a  case  of  drink. 
Unless  we  allow  that  Cupid  is  a  bartender.  I  married 
unwisely,  according  to  the  opinion  of  my  unforgiving; 
relatives.  Fve  been  out  of  work  for  a  year  because  I 
don't  know  how  to  work ;  and  I've  been  sick  in  BeHevue 
and  other  hospitals  four  months.  My  wife  and  kid  had 
to  go  back  to  hep  mother.  I  was  turned  out  of  the 
hospital  yesterday.  And  I  haven't  a  cent.  That* a  my 
tale  of  woe." 

"  Tough  luck,"  said  Thomas.     **  A  roan  alone  eao 


58  Strictly  Business 

pull  through  all  right.     But  I  hate  to  see  the  women 
and  kids  get  the  worst  of  it." 

Just  then  there  hummed  up  Fifth  Avenue  a  motor 
car  so  splendid,  so  red,  so  smoothly  running,  so  craftily 
demolishing  the  speed  regulations  that  it  drew  the  at- 
tention even  of  the  listless  Bed  Liners.  Suspended  and 
pinioned  on  its  left  side  was  an  extra  tire. 

When  opposite  the  unfortunate  company  the  fasten- 
ings of  this  tire  became  loosed.  It  fell  to  the  asphalt, 
bounded  and  rolled  rapidly  in  the  wake  of  the  flying 
car. 

Thomas  McQuade,  scenting  an  opportunity,  darted 
from  his  place  among  the  Preacher's  goats.  In  thirty 
seconds  he  had  caught  the  rolling  tire,  swung  it  over 
his  shoulder,  and  was  trotting  smartly  after  the  car. 
On  both  sides  of  the  avenue  people  were  shouting, 
whistling,  and  waving  canes  at  the  red  car,  pointing  to 
the  enterprising  Thomas  coming  up  with  the  lost  tire. 

One  dollar,  Thomas  had  estimated,  was  the  smallest 
guerdon  that  so  grand  an  automobilist  could  offer  for 
the  service  he  had  rendered,  and  save  his  pride. 

Two  blocks  away  the  car  had  stopped.  There  was 
a  little,  brown,  muffled  chauffeur  driving,  and  an  im- 
posing gentleman  wearing  a  magnificent  sealskin  coat 
and  a  silk  hat  on  a  rear  seat. 

Thomas  proffered  the  captured  tire  with  his  best  ex- 
coachman  manner  and  a  look  in  the  brighter  of  his  red- 
dened eyes  that  was  meant  to  be  suggestive  to  the  ex- 


The  Fifth  Wheel  59 

tent  of  a  silver  coin  or  two  and  receptive  up  to  higher 
denominations. 

But  the  look  was  not  so  construed.  The  sealskinned 
gentleman  received  the  tire,  placed  it  inside  the  car, 
gazed  intently  at  the  ex-coachman,  and  muttered  to 
himself  inscrutable  words. 

"  Strange  —  strange !  "  said  he.  "  Once  or  twice 
even  I,  myself,  have  fancied  that  the  Chaldean  Chiro- 
scope  has  availed.  Could  it  be  possible?  " 

Then  he  addressed  less  mysterious  words  to  the  wait- 
ing and  hopeful  Thomas. 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  rescue  of  my  tire. 
And  I  would  ask  you,  if  I  may,  a  question.  Do  you 
know  the  family  of  Van  Smuythes  living  in  Washington 
Square  North?  " 

"  Oughtn't  I  to?  "  replied  Thomas.  "  I  lived  there. 
Wish  I  did  yet." 

The  sealskinned  gentleman  opened  a  door  of  the 
car. 

"  Step  in,  please,"  he  said.  "  You  have  been  ex- 
pected." 

Thomas  McQuade  obeyed  with  surprise  but  without 
hesitation.  A  seat  in  a  motor  car  seemed  better  than 
standing  room  in  the  Bed  Line.  But  after  the  lap- 
robe  had  been  tucked  about  him  and  the  auto  had  sped 
on  its  course,  the  peculiarity  of  the  invitation  lingered 
in  his  mind. 

"  Maybe  the  guy  hasn't  got  any  change,"  was  his 


60  Strictly  Business 

diagnosis.  "  Lots  of  these  swell  rounders  don't  lug 
about  any  ready  money.  Guess  he'll  dump  me  out 
when  he  gets  to  some  joint  where  he  can  get  cash  on 
his  mug.  Anyhow,  it's  a  cinch  that  I've  got  that  open- 
air  bed  convention  beat  to  a  finish." 

Submerged  in  his  greatcoat,  the  mysterious  atitomo- 
bilist  seemed,  himself,  to  marvel  at  the  surprises  of  life. 
"  Wonderful !  amazing !  strange !  "  he  repeated  to  him- 
self constantly. 

When  the  car  had  well  entered  the  crosstown  Seven- 
ties it  swung  eastward  a  half  block  and  stopped  before 
a  row  of  high-stooped,  brownstone-front  houses. 

"  Be  kind  enough  to  enter  my  house  with  me,"  said 
the  sealskinned  gentleman  when  they  had  alighted. 
"  He's  going  to  dig  up,  sure,"  reflected  Thomas,  fol- 
lowing him  inside. 

There  was  a  dim  light  in  the  hall.  His  host  con- 
ducted him  through  a  door  to  the  left,  closing  it  after 
him  and  leaving  them  in  absolute  darkness.  Suddenly 
a  luminous  globe,  strangely  decorated,  shone  faintly 
in  the  centre  of  an  immense  room  that  seemed  to  Thomas 
more  splendidly  appointed  than  any  he  had  ever  seen 
on  the  stage  or  read  of  in  fairy  stories. 

The  walls  were  hidden  by  gorgeous  red  hangings  em- 
broidered with  fantastic  gold  figures.  At  the  rear  end 
of  the  room  were  draped  portieres  of  dull  gold  spangled 
with  silver  crescents  and  stars.  The  furniture  was  of 
the  costliest  and  rarest  styles.  The  ex-coachmanrs  feet 


The  Fifth  Wheel  61 

sank  into  rugs  as  fleecy  and  deep  as  snowdrifts.  There 
were  three  or  four  oddly  shaped  stands  or  tables  covered 
Tfith  black  velvet  drapery. 

Thomas  McQuade  took  in  the  splendors  of  this 
palatial  apartment  with  one  eye.  With  the  other  he 
looked  for  his  imposing  conductor  —  to  find  that  he 
had  disappeared. 

"  B'gee ! "  muttered  Thomas,  "  this  listens  like  a 
spook  shop.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  it  ain't  one  of  these 
Moravian  Nights'  adventures  that  you  read  about. 
Wonder  what  became  of  the  furry  guy." 

Suddenly  a  stuffed  owl  that  stood  on  an  ebony  perch 
near  the  illuminated  globe  slowly  raised  his  wings  and 
emitted  from  his  eyes  a  brilliant  electric  glow. 

With  a-  fright-born  imprecation,  Thomas  seized  a 
bronze  statuette  of  Hebe  from  a  cabinet  near  by  and 
hurled  it  with  all  his  might  at  the  terrifying  and  im- 
possible fowl.  The  owl  and  his  perch  went  over  with 
a  crash.  With  the  sound  there  was  a  click,  and  the 
room  was  flooded  with  light  from  a  dozen  frosted  globes 
along  the  walls  and  ceiling.  The  gold  portieres  parted 
and  closed,  and  the  mysterious  automobilist  entered  the 
room.  He  was  tall  and  wore  evening  dress  of  perfect 
cut  and  accurate  taste.  A  Vandyke  beard  of  glossy, 
golden  brown,  rather  long  and  wavy  hair,  smoothly 
parted,  and  large,  magnetic,  orientally  occult  eyes  gave 
him  a  most  impressive  and  striking  appearance.  If  you 
can  conceive  a  Russian  Grand  Duke  in  a  Rajah's  throne- 


62  Strictly  Business 

room  advancing  to  greet  a  visiting  Emperor,  you  will 
gather  something  of  the  majesty  of  his  manner.  But 
Thomas  McQuade  was  too  near  his  d  t's  to  be  mindful 
of  his  p's  and  5'*.  When  he  viewed  this  silken, 
polished,  and  somewhat  terrifying  host  he  thought 
vaguely  of  dentists. 

"  Say,  doc,"  said  he  resentfully,  "  that's  a  hot  bird 
you  keep  on  tap.  I  hope  I  didn't  break  anything. 
But  I've  nearly  got  the  williwalloos,  and  when  he  threw 
them  32-candle-power  lamps  of  his  on  me,  I  took  a 
snap-shot  at  him  with  that  little  brass  Flatiron  Girl 
that  stood  on  the  sideboard." 

"  That  is  merely  a  mechanical  toy,"  said  the  gentle- 
man with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  "  May  I  ask  you  to  be 
seated  while  I  explain  why  I  brought  you  to  my  house. 
Perhaps  you  would  not  understand  nor  be  in  sympathy 
with  the  psychological  prompting  that  caused  me  to  do 
so.  So  I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once  by  venturing  to 
refer  to  your  admission  that  you  know  the  Van  Smuythe 
family,  of  Washington  Square  North." 

"  Any  silver  missing?  "  asked  Thomas  tartly.  "  Any 
joolry  displaced?  Of  course  I  know  'em.  Any  of  the 
old  ladies'  sunshades  disappeared?  Well,  I  know  'em. 
And  then  what?" 

The  Grand  Duke  rubbed  his  white  hands  together 
softly. 

"  Wonderful !  "  he  murmured.  "  Wonderful !  Shall 
I  come  to  believe  in  the  Chaldean  Chiroscope  myself? 


The  Fifth  Wheel  63 

Let  me  assure  you,"  he  continued,  "  that  there  is  noth- 
ing for  you  to  fear.  Instead,  I  think  I  can  promise 
you  that  very  good  fortune  awaits  you.  We  will  see." 

"Do  they  want  me  back?"  asked  Thomas,  with 
something  of  his  old  professional  pride  in  his  voice. 
"I'll  promise  to  cut  out  the  booze  and  do  the  right 
thing  if  they'll  try  me  again.  But  how  did  you  get 
wise,  doc  ?  B'gee,  it's  the  swellest  employment  agency 
I  was  ever  in,  with  its  flashlight  owls  and  so  forth." 

With  an  indulgent  smile  the  gracious  host  begged  to 
be  excused  for  two  minutes.  He  went  out  to  the  side- 
walk and  gave  an  order  to  the  chauffeur,  who  still 
waited  with  the  car.  Returning  to  the  mysterious 
apartment,  he  sat  by  his  guest  and  began  to  entertain 
him  so  well  by  his  witty  and  genial  converse  that  the 
poor  Bed  Liner  almost  forgot  the  cold  streets  from 
which  he  had  been  so  recently  and  so  singularly  rescued. 
A  servant  brought  some  tender  cold  fowl  and  tea  bis- 
cuits and  a  glass  of  miraculous  wine;  and  Thomas  felt 
the  glamour  of  Arabia  envelop  him.  Thus  half  an 
hour  sped  quickly;  and  then  the  honk  of  the  returned 
motor  car  at  the  door  suddenly  drew  the  Grand  Duke 
to  his  feet,  with  another  soft  petition  for  a  brief 
absence. 

Two  women,  well  muffled  against  the  cold,  were  ad- 
mitted at  the  front  door  and  suavely  conducted  by  the 
master  of  the  house  down  the  hall  through  another  door 
to  the  left  and  into  a  smaller  room,  which  was  screened 


64  Strictly  Business 

«nd  segregated  from  the  larger  front  room  by  heavy, 
•double  portieres.  Here  the  furnishings  were  even  more 
elegant  and  exquisitely  tasteful  than  in  the  other.  On 
a  gold-inlaid  rosewood  table  were  scattered  sheets  of 
white  paper  and  a  queer,  triangular  instrument  or  toy, 
apparently  of  gold,  standing  on  little  wheels. 

The  taller  woman  threw  back  her  black  veil  and 
loosened  her  cloak.  She  was  fifty,  with  a  wrinkled  and 
sad  face.  The  other,  young  and  plump,  took  a  chair 
a  little  distance  away  and  to  the  rear  as  a  servant  or  an 
attendant  might  have  done. 

"  You  sent  for  me,  Professor  Cherubusco,"  said  the 
elder  woman,  wearily.  "  I  hope  you  have  something 
more  definite  than  usual  to  say.  I've  about  lost  the  lit- 
tle faith  I  had  in  your  art.  I  would  not  have  responded 
to  your  call  this  evening  if  my  sister  had  not  insisted 
upon  it." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  professor,  with  his  princeliest 
smile,  "  the  true  Art  cannot  fail.  To  find  the  true 
psychic  and  potential  branch  sometimes  requires  time. 
We  have  not  succeeded,  I  admit,  with  the  cards,  the 
crystal,  the  stars,  the  magic  formulae  of  Zarazin,  nor 
the  Oracle  of  Po.  But  we  have  at  last  discovered  the 
true  psychic  route.  The  Chaldean  Chiroscope  has  been 
successful  in  our  search." 

The  professor's  voice  had  a  ring  that  seemed  to  pro- 
claim his  belief  in  his  own  words.  The  elderly  ladjr 
looked  at  him  with  a  little  more  interest. 


The  Fifth  Wheel  65 

"  Why,  there  was  no  sense  in  those  words  that  it 
wrote  with  ray  hands  on  it,"  she  said.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  The  words  were  these,"  said  Professor  Cherubusco, 
rising  to  his  full  magnificent  height :  '  *  By  the  -fifth 
lvheel  of  the  chariot  he  shall  come.'  ' 

"  I  haven't  seen  many  chariots,"  said  the  lady,  "  but 
I  never  saw  one  with  five  wheels." 

"  Progress,"  said  the  professor  — "  progress  in  science 
and  mechanics  has  accomplished  it  —  though,  to  be 
exact,  we  may  speak  of  it  only  as  an  extra  tire.  Prog- 
ress in  occult  art  has  advanced  in  proportion.  Madam, 
I  repeat  that  the  Chaldean  Chiroscope  has  succeeded. 
I  can  not  only  answer  the  question  that  you  have  pro- 
pounded, but  I  can  produce  before  your  eyes  the  proof 
thereof." 

And  now  the  lady  was  disturbed  both  in  her  disbelief 
and  in  her  poise. 

"  O  professor !  "  she  cried  anxiously  — "  When  ?  — 
where?  Has  he  been  found?  Do  not  keep  me  in  sus- 
pense." 

"  I  beg  you  will  excuse  me  for  a  very  few  minutes," 
said  Professor  Cherubusco,  *'  and  I  think  I  can  demon- 
strate to  you  the  efficacy  of  the  true  Art." 

Thomas  was  contentedly  munching  the  last  crumbs  of 
the  bread  and  fowl  when  the  enchanter  appeared  sud- 
denly at  his  side. 

"Are  you  willing  to  return  to  your  old  home  if  you 


66  Strictly  Business 

are  assured  of  a  welcome  and  restoration  to  favor?  "  he 
asked,  with  his  courteous,  royal  smile. 

"  Do  I  look  bughouse  ? "  answered  Thomas. 
"  Enough  of  the  footback  life  for  me.  But  will  they 
have  me  again?  The  old  lady  is  as  fixed  in  her  ways  as 
a  nut  on  a  new  axle." 

"  My  dear  young  man,"  said  the  other,  "  she  has  been 
searching  for  you  everywhere." 

"Great!"  said  Thomas.  "I'm  on  the  job.  That 
team  of  dropsical  dromedaries  they  call  horses  is  a 
handicap  for  a  first-class  coachman  like  myself ;  but  I'll 
take  the  job  back,  sure,  doc.  They're  good  people  to 
be  with." 

And  now  a  change  came  o'er  the  suave  countenance  of 
the  Caliph  of  Bagdad.  He  looked  keenly  and  suspi- 
ciously at  the  ex-coachman. 

"  May  I  ask  what  your  name  is  ?  "  he  said  shortly. 

"  You've  been  looking  for  me,"  said  Thomas,  "  and 
don't  know  my  name?  You're  a  funny  kind  of  sleuth. 
You  must  be  one  of  the  Central  Office  gumshoers.  I'm 
Thomas  McQuade,  of  course;  and  I've  been  chauffeur 
of  the  Van  Smuythe  elephant  team  for  a  year.  They 
fired  me  a  month  ago  for  —  well,  doc,  you  saw  what  I 
did  to  your  old  owl.  I  went  broke  on  booze,  and  when 
I  saw  the  tire  drop  off  your  whiz  wagon  I  was  standing 
in  that  squad  of  hoboes  ab  the  Worth  monument  wait- 
ing for  a  free  bed.  Now,  what's  the  prize  for  the  best 
answer  to  all  this  ?  " 


The  Fifth  Wheel  67 

To  his  intense  surprise  Thomas  felt  himself  lifted  by 
the  collar  and  dragged,  without  a  word  of  explanation, 
to  the  front  door.  This  was  opened,  and  he  was  kicked 
forcibly  down  the  steps  with  one  heavy,  disillusionizing, 
humiliating  impact  of  the  stupendous  Arabian's  shoe. 

As  soon  as  the  ex-coachman  had  recovered  his  feet  and 
his  wits  he  hastened  as  fast  as  he  could  eastward  toward 
Broadway. 

"  Crazy  guy,"  was  his  estimate  of  the  mysterious  auto- 
mobilist.  "  Just  wanted  to  have  some  fun  kiddin',  I 
guess.  He  might  have  dug  up  a  dollar,  anyhow.  Now 
I've  got  to  hurry  up  and  get  back  to  that  gang  of  bum 
bed  hunters  before  they  all  get  preached  to  sleep." 

When  Thomas  reached  the  end  of  his  two-mile  walk 
he  found  the  ranks  of  the  homeless  reduced  to  a  squad 
of  perhaps  eight  or  ten.  He  took  the  proper  place  of  a 
newcomer  at  the  left  end  of  the  rear  rank.  In  the  file  in 
front  of  him  was  the  young  man  who  had  spoken  to  him 
of  hospitals  and  something  of  a  wife  and  child. 

"  Sorry  to  see  you  back  again,"  said  the  young  man, 
turning  to  speak  to  him.  *'  I  hoped  you  had  struck 
something  better  than  this." 

"Me?"  said  Thomas.  "Oh,  I  just  took  a  run 
around  the  block  to  keep  warm!  I  see  the  public  ain't 
lending  to  the  Lord  very  fast  to-night." 

"  In  this  kind  of  weather,"  said  the  young  man, 
"  charity  avails  itself  of  the  proverb,  and  both  begins 
and  ends  at  home." 


68  Strictly  Business 

And  now  the  Preacher  and  his  vehement  lieutenant 
struck  up  a  last  hymn  of  petition  to  Providence  and 
man.  Those  of  the  Bed  Liners  whose  windpipes  still 
registered  above  32  degrees  hopelessly  and  tunelessly 
joined  in. 

In  the  middle  of  the  second  verse  Thomas  saw  a  sturdy 
girl  with  wind-tossed  drapery  battling  against  the  breeze 
and  coming  straight  toward  him  from  the  opposite  side- 
walk. "  Annie ! "  he  yelled,  and  ran  toward  her. 

"  You  fool,  you  fool !  "  she  cried,  weeping  and  laugh- 
ing, and  hanging  upon  his  neck,  "  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"The  Stuff,"  explained  Thomas  briefly.  "You 
know.  But  subsequently  nit.  Not  a  drop."  He  led 
her  to  the  curb.  "  How  did  you  happen  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  I  came  to  find  you,"  said  Annie,  holding  tight  to  his 
sleeve.  "  Oh,  you  big  fool !  Professor  Cherubusco  told 
us  that  we  might  find  you  here." 

"  Professor  Ch  —  Don't  know  the  guy.  What  sa- 
loon does  he  work  in  ?  " 

"  He's  a  clearvoyant,  Thomas ;  the  greatest  in  the 
world.  He  found  you  with  the  Chaldean  telescope,  he 
said." 

**  He's  a  liar,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  never  had  it.  He 
never  saw  me  have  anybody's  telescope." 

"  And  he  said  you  came  in  a  chariot  with  five  wheels 
or  something." 

"  Annie,"  said  Thomas  solicitously,  "  you're  giving  me 
the  wheels  now.  If  I  had  a  chariot  I'd  have  gone  to  bed 


The  Fifth  Wheel  69 

in  it  long  ago.  And  without  any  singing  and  preaching 
for  a  nightcap,  either." 

"  Listen,  you  big  fool.  The  Missis  says  she'll  take 
you  back.  I  begged  her  to.  But  you  must  behave. 
And  you  can  go  up  to  the  house  to-night ;  and  your  old 
room  over  the  stable  is  ready.'* 

"  Great !  "  said  Thomas  earnestly.  "  You  are  It,  An- 
nie. But  when  did  these  stunts  happen  ?  " 

"  To-night  at  Professor  Cherubusco's.  He  sent  his 
automobile  for  the  Missis,  and  she  took  me  along.  I've 
been  there  with  her  before." 

"  What's  the  professor's  line  ?  " 

"  He's  a  clearvoyant  and  a  witch.  The  Missis  con- 
sults him.  He  knows  everything.  But  he  hasn't  done 
the  Missis  any  good  yet,  though  she's  paid  him  hun- 
dreds of  dollars.  But  he  told  us  that  the  stars  told  him 
we  could  find  you  here." 

"  What's  the  old  lady  want  this  cherry-buster  to  do  ?  " 

"  That's  a  family  secret,"  said  Annie.  "  And  now 
you've  asked  enough  questions.  Come  on  home,  you 
big  fool." 

They  had  moved  but  a  little  way  up  the  street  when 
Thomas  stopped. 

"  Got  any  dough  with  you,  Annie  ?  "  he  asked. 

Annie  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  that  look  means,"  said  Thomas. 
"  You're  wrong.  Not  another  drop.  But  there's  a  guy 
that  was  standing  next  to  me  in  the  bed  line  over  there 


70  Strictly  Business 

that's  in  a  bad  shape.  He's  the  right  kind,  and  he's  got 
wives  or  kids  or  something,  and  he's  on  the  sick  list.  No 
booze.  If  you  could  dig  up  half  a  dollar  for  him  so  he 
could  get  a  decent  bed  I'd  like  it." 

Annie's  fingers  began  to  wiggle  in  her  purse. 

"  Sure,  I've  got  money,"  said  she.  "  Lots  of  it. 
Twelve  dollars."  And  then  she  added,  with  woman's 
ineradicable  suspicion  of  vicarious  benevolence: 
"  Bring  him  here  and  let  me  see  him  first." 

Thomas  went  on  his  mission.  The  wan  Bed  Liner 
came  readily  enough.  As  the  two  drew  near,  Annie 
looked  up  from  her  purse  and  screamed : 

"  Mr.  Walter  —     Oh  —  Mr.  Walter !  " 

"  Is  that  you,  Annie?  "  said  the  young  man  weakly. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Walter !  —  and  the  Missis  hunting  high 
and  low  for  you !  " 

"  Does  mother  want  to  see  me?  "  he  asked,  with  a 
flush  coming  out  on  his  pale  cheek. 

"  She's  been  hunting  for  you  high  and  low.  Sure,  she 
wants  to  see  you.  She  wants  you  to  come  home.  She's 
tried  police  and  morgues  and  lawyers  and  advertising 
and  detectives  and  rewards  and  everything.  And  then 
she  took  up  clearvoyants.  You'll  go  right  home,  won't 
you,  Mr.  Walter?  " 

"  Gladly,  if  she  wants  me,"  said  the  young  man. 
"  Three  years  is  a  long  time.  I  suppose  I'll  have  to 
walk  up,  though,  unless  the  street  cars  are  giving  free 
rides.  I  used  to  walk  and  beat  that  old  plug  team  of 


The  Fifth  Wheel  71 

bays  we  used  to  drive  to  the  carriage.  Have  they  got 
them  yet?  " 

"  They  have,"  said  Thomas,  feelingly.  "  And  they'll 
have  'em  ten  years  from  now.  The  life  of  the  royal 
elephantibus  truckhorseibus  is  one  hundred  and  forty- 
nine  years.  I'm  the  coachman.  Just  got  my  reappoint- 
ment  five  minutes  ago.  Let's  all  ride  up  in  a  surface 
car  —  that  is  —  er  —  if  Annie  will  pay  the  fares." 

On  the  Broadway  car  Annie  handed  each  one  of  the 
prodigals  a  nickel  to  pay  the  conductor. 

"  Seems  to  me  you  are  mighty  reckless  the  way  you 
throw  large  sums  of  money  around,"  said  Thomas  sar- 
castically. 

"  In  that  purse,"  said  Annie  decidedly,  "  is  exactly 
$11.85.  I  -shall  take  every  cent  of  it  to-morrow  and 
give  it  to  Professor  Cherubusco,  the  greatest  man  in 
the  world." 

"  Well,"  said  Thomas,  "  I  guess  he  must  be  a  pretty 
fly  guy  to  pipe  off  things  the  way  he  does.  I'm  glad 
his  spooks  told  him  where  you  could  find  me.  If  you'll 
give  me  his  address,  some  day  I'll  go  up  there,  myself, 
and  shake  his  hand." 

Presently  Thomas  moved  tentatively  in  his  seat,  and 
thoughtfully  felt  an  abrasion  or  two  on  his  knees  and 
elbows. 

"  Say,  Annie,"  said  he  confidentially,  "  maybe  it's  one 
of  the  last  dreams  of  the  booze,  but  I've  a  kind  of  a 
recollection  of  riding  in  an  automobile  with  a  swell  guy 


72  Strictly  Business 

that  took  me  to  a  house  full  of  eagles  and  arc  lights. 
He  fed  me  on  biscuits  and  hot  air,  and  then  kicked  me 
down  the  front  steps.  If  it  was  the  d  t's,  why  am  I  so 
sore  ?  " 

"  Shut  up,  you  fool,"  said  Annie. 

"  If  I  could  find  that  funny  guy's  house,"  said 
Thomas,  in  conclusion,  "  Fd  go  up  there  some  day  and 
punch  his  nose  for  him," 


VI 

THE  POET  AND  THE  PEASANT 

1  HE  other  day  a  poet  friend  of  mine,  who  has  lived  in 
close  communion  with  nature  all  his  life,  wrote  a  poem 
and  took  it  to  an  editor. 

It  was  a  living  pastoral,  full  of  the  genuine  breath  of 
the  fields,  the  song  of  birds,  and  the  pleasant  chatter  of 
trickling  streams. 

When  the  poet  called  again  to  see  about  it,  with  hopes 
of  a  beefsteak  dinner  in  his  heart,  it  was  handed  back  to 
him  with  the  comment : 

"  Too  artificial." 

Several  of  us  met  over  spaghetti  and  Dutchess  Countj 
chianti,  and  swallowed  indignation  with  the  slippery 
forkfuls. 

And  there  we  dug  a  pit  for  the  editor.  With  us  was 
Conant,  a  well-arrived  writer  of  fiction  —  a  man  who 
had  trod  on  asphalt  all  his  life,  and  who  had  never 
looked  upon  bucolic  scenes  except  with  sensations  of  dis- 
gust from  the  windows  of  express  trains. 

Conant  wrote  a  poem  and  called  it  "  The  Doe  and  the 
Brook."  It  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  kind  of  work  you 
would  expect  from  a  poet  who  had  strayed  with  Amaryl* 


74  Strictly  Business 

lis  only  as  far  as  the  florist's  windows,  and  whose  sole 
ornithological  discussion  had  been  carried  on  with  a 
waiter.  Conant  signed  this  poem,  and  we  sent  it  to  the 
same  editor. 

But  this  has  very  little  to  do  with  the  story. 

Just  as  the  editor  was  reading  the  first  line  of  the 
poem,  on  the  next  morning,  a  being  stumbled  off  the 
West  Shore  ferryboat,  and  loped  slowly  up  Forty-sec- 
ond Street. 

The  invader  was  a  young  man  with  light  blue  eyes, 
a  hanging  lip  and  hair  the  exact  color  of  the  little  or- 
phan's (afterward  discovered  to  be  the  earl's  daughter) 
in  one  of  Mr.  Blaney's  plays.  His  trousers  were  cor- 
duroy, his  coat  short-sleeved,  with  buttons  in  the  middle 
of  his  back.  One  bootleg  was  outside  the  corduroys. 
You  looked  expectantly,  though  in  vain,  at  his  straw 
hat  for  ear  holes,  its  shape  inaugurating  the  suspicion 
that  it  had  been  ravaged  from  a  former  equine  possessor. 
In  his  hand  was  a  valise  —  description  of  it  is  an  im- 
possible task;  a  Boston  man  would  not  have  carried  his 
lunch  and  law  books  to  his  office  in  it.  And  above  one 
•ear,  in  his  hair,  was  a  wisp  of  hay  —  the  rustic's  letter 
of  credit,  his  badge  of  innocence,  the  last  clinging 
touch  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  lingering  to  shame  the 
gold-brick  men. 

Knowingly,  smilingly,  the  city  crowds  passed  him  by. 
They  saw  the  raw  stranger  stand  in  the  gutter  and  stretch 


The  Poet  and  the  Peasant  75 

his  neck  at  the  tall  buildings.  At  this  they  ceased  to 
smile,  and  even  to  look  at  him.  It  had  been  done  so 
often.  A  few  glanced  at  the  antique  valise  to  see  what 
Coney  "  attraction  "  or  brand  of  chewing  gum  he  might 
be  thus  dinning  into  his  memory.  But  for  the  most 
part  he  was  ignored.  Even  the  newsboys  looked  bored 
when  he  scampered  like  a  circus  clown  out  of  the  way 
of  cabs  and  street  cars. 

At  Eighth  Avenue  stood  "  Bunco  Harry,"  with  his 
dyed  mustache  and  shiny,  good-natured  eyes.  Harry 
was  too  good  an  artist  not  to  be  pained  at  the  sight  of 
an  actor  overdoing  his  part.  He  edged  up  to  the  coun- 
tryman, who  had  stopped  to  open  his  mouth  at  a  jewelry 
store  window,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Too  thick,  pal,"  he  said,  critically  • — "  too  thick  by 
a  couple  of  inches.  I  don't  know  what  your  lay  is ;  but 
you've  got  the  properties  on  too  thick.  That  hay,  now 
—  why,  they  don't  even  allow  that  on  Proctor's  circuit 
any  more." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  mister,"  said  the  green  one. 
"  I'm  not  lookin'  for  any  circus.  I've  just  run  down 
from  Ulster  County  to  look  at  the  town,  bein*  that 
the  hayin's  over  with.  Gosh!  but  it's  a  whopper.  I 
thought  Poughkeepsie  was  some  punkins ;  but  this  here 
town  is  five  times  as  big." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  "  Bunco  Harry,"  raising  his  eye- 
brows, "  I  didn't  mean  to  butt  in.  You  don't  have  to 


76  Strictly  Business 

tell.  I  thought  you  ought  to  tone  down  a  little,  so  I 
tried  to  put  you  wise.  Wish  you  success  at  your  graft, 
whatever  it  is.  Come  and  have  a  drink,  anyhow." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  having  a  glass  of  lager  beer,"  ac- 
knowledged the  other. 

They  went  to  a  cafe  frequented  by  men  with  smooth 
faces  and  shifty  eyes,  and  sat  at  their  drinks. 

"  I'm  glad  I  come  across  you,  mister,"  said  Haylocks. 
"  How'd  you  like  to  play  a  game  or  two  of  seven-up  ? 
I've  got  the  keerds." 

He  fished  them  out  of  Noah's  valise  —  a  rare,  inimita- 
ble deck,  greasy  with  bacon  suppers  and  grimy  with  the 
soil  of  cornfields. 

"  Bunco  Harry  "  laughed  loud  and  briefly. 

"  Not  for  me,  sport,"  he  said,  firmly.  "  I  don't  go 
against  that  make-up  of  yours  for  a  cent.  But  I  still 
say  you've  overdone  it.  The  Reubs  haven't  dressed  like 
that  since  T9.  I  doubt  if  you  could  work  Brooklyn  for 
a  key-winding  watch  with  that  layout." 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  think  I  ain't  got  the  money,"  boasted 
Haylocks.  He  drew  forth  a  tightly  rolled  mass  of  bills 
as  large  as  a  teacup,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"  Got  that  for  my  share  of  grandmother's  farm,"  he 
announced.  "  There's  $950  in  that  roll.  Thought  I'd 
come  to  the  city  and  look  around  for  a  likely  business  to 
go  into." 

"  Bunco  Harry "  took  up  the  roll  of  money  and 
looked  at  it  with  almost  respect  in  his  smiling  eyes. 


77 

"  I've  seen  worse,"  he  said,  critically.  "  But  you'll 
never  do  it  in  them  clothes.  You  want  to  get  light  tan 
shoes  and  a  black  suit  and  a  straw  hat  with  a  colored 
band,  and  talk  a  good  deal  about  Pittsburg  and  freight 
differentials,  and  drink  sherry  for  breakfast  in  order 
to  work  off  phony  stuff  like  that." 

"  What's  his  line  ?  "  asked  two  or  three  shifty-eyed 
men  of  "  Bunco  Harry  "  after  Haylocks  had  gathered 
up  his  impugned  money  and  departed. 

"  The  queer,  I  guess,"  said  Harry.  "  Or  else  he's  one 
of  Jerome's  men.  Or  some  guy  with  a  new  graft.  He's 
too  much  hayseed.  Maybe  that  his  —  I  wonder  now  — « 
oh,  no,  it  couldn't  have  been  real  money." 

Haylocks  wandered  on.  Thirst  probably  assailed  him 
again,  for  he  dived  into  a  dark  groggery  on  a  side  street 
and  bought  beer.  Several  sinister  fellows  hung  upon 
one  end  of  the  bar.  At  first  sight  of  him  their  eyes 
brightened;  but  when  his  insistent  and  exaggerated  rus- 
ticity became  apparent  their  expressions  changed  to 
wary  suspicion. 

Haylocks  swung  his  valise  across  the  bar. 

"  Keep  that  a  while  for  me,  mister,"  he  said,  chewing 
at  the  end  of  a  virulent  claybank  cigar.  "  I'll  be  back 
after  I  knock  around  a  spell.  And  keep  your  eye  on  it, 
for  there's  $950  inside  of  it,  though  maybe  you  wouldn't 
think  so  to  look  at  me.'J 

Somewhere  outside  a  phonograph  struck  up  a  band 


78  Strictly  Business 

piece,  and  Haylocks  was  off  for  it,  his  coat-tail  buttons 
flopping  in  the  middle  of  his  back. 

"  Diwy,  Mike,"  said  the  men  hanging  upon  the  bar4 
winking  openly  at  one  another. 

"  Honest,  now,"  said  the  bartender,  kicking  the  valise 
to  one  side.  "  You  don't  think  I'd  fall  to  that,  do  you  ? 
Anybody  can  see  he  ain't  no  jay.  One  of  McAdoo's 
come-on  squad,  I  guess.  He's  a  shine  if  he  made  himself 
up.  There  ain't  no  parts  of  the  country  now  where  they 
dress  like  that  since  they  run  rural  free  delivery  to 
Providence,  Rhode  Island.  If  he's  got  nine-fifty  in  that 
valise  it's  a  ninety-eight  cent  Waterbury  that's  stopped 
fit  ten  minutes  to  ten." 

When  Haylocks  had  exhausted  the  resources  of  Mr. 
Edison  to  amuse  he  returned  for  his  valise.  And  then 
down  Broadway  he  gallivanted,  culling  the  sights  with 
his  eager  blue  eyes.  But  still  and  evermore  Broadway 
rejected  him  with  curt  glances  and  sardonic  smiles.  He 
was  the  oldest  of  the  "  gags  "  that  the  city  must  endure. 
He  was  so  flagrantly  impossible,  so  ultra  rustic,  so  exag- 
gerated beyond  the  most  freakish  products  of  the  barn- 
yard, the  hayfield  and  the  vaudeville  stage,  that  he  ex- 
cited only  weariness  and  suspicion.  And  the  wisp  of 
hay  in  his  hair  was  so  genuine,  so  fresh  and  redolent 
of  the  meadows,  so  clamorously  rural  that  even  a  shell- 
game  man  would  have  put  up  his  peas  and  folded  his 
table  at  the  sight  of  it. 

Haylocks  seated  himself  upon  a  flight  of  stone  steps 


The  Poet  and  the  Peasant  79 

and  once  more  exhumed  his  roll  of  yellow-backs  from  the 
valise.  The  outer  one,  a  twenty,  he  shucked  off  and 
beckoned  to  a  newsboy. 

"  Son,"  said  he,  "  run  somewhere  and  get  this  changed 
for  me.  I'm  mighty  nigh  out  of  chicken  feed.  I 
guess  you'll  get  a  nickel  if  you'll  hurry  up." 

A  hurt  look  appeared  through  the  dirt  on  the  newsy's 
.face. 

"  Aw,  watchert'ink !  G'wan  and  get  yer  funny  biU 
changed  yerself.  Dey  ain't  no  farm  clothes  yer  got  on* 
G'wan  wit  yer  stage  money." 

On  a  corner  lounged  a  keen-eyed  steerer  for  a  gam- 
bling-house. He  saw  Haylocks,  and  his  expression  sud- 
denly grew  cold  and  virtuous. 

"  Mister,"  said  the  rural  one.  "  I've  heard  of  places 
in  this  here  town  where  a  fellow  could  have  a  good  game 
or  old  sledge  or  peg  a  card  at  keno.  I  got  $950  in  this 
valise,  and  I  come  down  from  old  Ulster  to  see  the  sights. 
Know  where  a  fellow  could  get  action  on  about  $9  or 
$10?  I'm  goin'  to  have  some  sport,  and  then  maybe  I'll 
buy  out  a  business  of  some  kind." 

The  steerer  looked  pained,  and  investigated  a  white 
speck  on  his  left  forefinger  nail. 

"  Cheese  it,  old  man,"  he  murmured,  reproachfully. 
"  The  Central  Office  must  be  bughouse  to  send  you  out 
looking  like  such  a  gillie.  You  couldn't  get  within  two 
blocks  of  a  sidewalk  crap  game  in  them  Tony  Pastor 
props.  The  recent  Mr.  Scotty  from  Death  Valley  has 


80  Strictly  Business 

got  you  beat  a  crosstown  block  in  the  way  of  Eliza- 
bethan scenery  and  mechanical  accessories.  Let  it  be 
skiddoo  for  yours.  Nay,  I  know  of  no  gilded  halls 
where  one  may  bet  a  patrol  wagon  on  the  ace." 

Rebuffed  again  by  the  great  city  that  is  so  swift  to 
detect  artificialities,  Haylocks  sat  upon  the  curb  and 
presented  his  thoughts  to  hold  a  conference. 

"  It's  my  clothes,"  said  he ;  "  durned  if  it  ain't.  They 
think  I'm  a  hayseed  and  won't  have  nothin'  to  do  with 
me.  Nobody  never  made  fun  of  this  hat  in  Ulster 
County.  I  guess  if  you  want  folks  to  notice  you  in 
New  York  you  must  dress  up  like  they  do." 

So  Haylocks  went  shopping  in  the  bazaars  where  men 
spake  through  their  noses  and  rubbed  their  hands  and 
•*aan.  the  tape  line  ecstatically  over  the  bulge  in  his  inside 
pocket  where  reposed  a  red  nubbin  of  corn  with  an  even 
number  of  rows.  And  messengers  bearing  parcels  and 
boxes  streamed  to  his  hotel  on  Broadway  within  the 
lights  of  Long  Acre. 

At  9  o'clock  in  the  evening  one  descended  to  the  side- 
walk whom  Ulster  County  would  have  foresworn.  Bright 
tan  were  his  shoes;  his  hat  the  latest  block.  His  light 
gray  trousers  were  deeply  creased ;  a  gay  blue  silk  hand- 
kerchief flapped  from  the  breast  pocket  of  his  elegant 
English  walking  coat.  His  collar  might  have  graced  a 
laundry  window ;  his  blond  hair  was  trimmed  close ;  the 
wisp  of  hay  was  gone. 

For  an  instant  he  stood,  resplendent,  with  the  leisurely 


The  Poet  and  the  Peasant  81 

air  of  a  boulevardier  concocting  in  his  mind  the  route 
for  his  evening  pleasures.  And  then  he  turned  down 
the  gay,  bright  street  with  the  easy  and  graceful  tread 
of  a  millionaire. 

But  in  the  instant  that  he  had  paused  the  wisest  and 
keenest  eyes  in  the  city  had  enveloped  him  in  their  field 
of  vision.  A  stout  man  with  gray  eyes  picked  two  of 
his  friends  with  a  lift  of  his  eyebrows  from  the  row  of 
loungers  in  front  of  the  hotel. 

"  The  juiciest  jay  I've  seen  in  six  months,"  said  the 
man  with  gray  eyes.  "  Come  along." 

It  was  half-past  eleven  when  a  man  galloped  into  the 
West  Forty-seventh  Street  Police  Station  with  the  story 
of  his  wrongs. 

"  Nine  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,"  he  gasped,  "  all  my 
share  of  grandmother's  farm." 

The  desk  sergeant  wrung  from  him  the  name  Jabez 
Bulltongue,  of  Locust  Valley  farm,  Ulster  County,  and 
then  began  to  take  descriptions  of  the  strong-arm  gentle- 
men. 

When  Conant  went  to  see  the  editor  about  the  fate  of 
his  poem,  he  was  received  over  the  head  of  the  office  boy 
into  the  inner  office  that  is  decorated  with  the  statuettes 
by  Rodin  and  J.  G.  Brown. 

"When  I  read  the  first  line  of  *  The  Doe  and  the 
Brook,"  said  the  editor,  "  I  knew  it  to  be  the  work  of 
one  whose  life  has  been  heart  to  heart  with  Nature.  The 
finished  art  of  the  line  did  not  blind  me  to  that  fact.  To 


82  Strictly  Business 

use  a  somewhat  homely  comparison,  it  was  as  if  a  wild, 
free  child  of  the  woods  and  fields  were  to  don  the  garb 
of  fashion  and  walk  down  Broadway.  Beneath  the  ap- 
parel the  man  would  show." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Conant.  "  I  suppose  the  check  will 
be  round  on  Thursday,  as  usual." 

The  morals  of  this  story  have  somehow  gotten  mixed. 
You  can  take  your  choice  of  "  Stay  on  the  Farm  "  or 
"  Don't  Write  Poetry." 


THE  ROBE  OF  PEACE 

JVlYSTERIES  follow  one  another  so  closely  in  a  great 
city  that  the  reading  public  and  the  friends  of  Johnny 
Bellchambers  have  ceased  to  marvel  at  his  sudden  and 
unexplained  disappearance  nearly  a  year  ago.  This 
particular  mystery  has  now  been  cleared  up,  but  the 
solution  is  so  strange  and  incredible  to  the  mind  of  the 
average  man  that  only  a  select  few  who  were  in  close 
touch  with  Bellchambers  will  give  it  full  credence. 

Johnny  Bellchambers,  as  is  well  known,  belonged  to 
the  intrinsically  inner  circle  of  the  elite.  Without  any 
of  the  ostentation  of  the  fashionable  ones  who  endeavor 
to  attract  notice  by  eccentric  display  of  wealth  and 
show  he  still  was  au  fait  in  everything  that  gave  deserved 
lustre  to  his  high  position  in  the  ranks  of  society. 

Especially  did  he  shine  in  the  matter  of  dress.  In 
this  he  was  the  despair  of  imitators.  Always  correct, 
exquisitely  groomed,  and  possessed  of  an  unlimited  ward- 
robe, he  was  conceded  to  be  the  best-dressed  man  in  New 
York,  and,  therefore,  in  America.  There  was  not  a 
tailor  in  Gotham  who  would  not  have  deemed  it  a 

precious  boon  to  have  been  granted  the  privilege  of  mak- 

83 


84  Strictly  Business 

ing  Bellchambers'  clothes  without  a  cent  of  pay.  As  he 
wore  them,  they  would  have  been  a  priceless  advertise- 
ment. Trousers  were  his  especial  passion.  Here  noth- 
ing but  perfection  would  he  notice.  He  would  have 
worn  a  patch  as  quickly  as  he  would  have  overlooked  a 
wrinkle.  He  kept  a  man  in  his  apartments  always  busy 
pressing  his  ample  supply.  His  friends  said  that  three 
hours  was  the  limit  of  time  that  he  would  wear  these 
garments  without  exchanging. 

Bellchambers  disappeared  very  suddenly.  For  three 
days  his  absence  brought  no  alarm  to  his  friends,  and 
then  they  began  to  operate  the  usual  methods  of  inquiry. 
All  of  them  failed.  He  had  left  absolutely  no  trace  be- 
hind. Then  the  search  for  a  motive  was  instituted,  but 
none  was  found.  He  had  no  enemies,  he  had  no  debts, 
there  was  no  woman.  There  were  several  thousand  dol- 
lars in  his  bank  to  his  credit.  He  had  never  showed  any 
tendency  toward  mental  eccentricity ;  in  fact,  he  was  of 
a  particularly  calm  and  well-balanced  temperament. 
Every  means  of  tracing  the  vanished  man  was  made  use 
of,  but  without  avail.  It  was  one  of  those  cases  —  more 
numerous  in  late  years  —  where  men  s«em  to  have  gone 
out  like  the  flame  of  a  candle,  leaving  not  even  a  trail 
of  smoke  as  a  witness. 

In  May,  Tom  Eyres  and  Lancelot  Gilliam,  two  of 
Bellchambers'  old  friends,  went  for  a  little  run  on  the 
other  side.  While  pottering  around  in  Italy  and 
Switzerland,  they  happened,  one  day,  to  hear  of  a  most- 


The  Robe  of  Peace  85 

astery  in  the  Swiss  Alps  that  promised  something  out- 
side of  the  ordinary  tourist-beguiling  attractions.  The 
monastery  was  almost  inaccessible  to  the  average  sight- 
seer, being  on  an  extremely  rugged  and  precipitous 
spur  of  the  mountains.  The  attractions  it  possessed 
but  did  not  advertise  were,  first,  an  exclusive  and  divine 
cordial  made  by  the  monks  that  was  said  to  far  surpass 
benedictine  and  chartreuse.  Next  a  huge  brass  bell  so 
purely  and  accurately  cast  that  it  had  not  ceased  sound- 
ing since  it  was  first  rung  three  hundred  years  ago. 
Finally,  it  was  asserted  that  no  Englishman  had  ever 
set  foot  within  its  walls.  Eyres  and  Gilliam  decided 
that  these  three  reports  called  for  investigation. 

It  took  them  two  days  with  the  aid  of  two  guides  to 
reach  the  monastery  of  St.  Gondrau.  It  stood  upon  a 
frozen,  wind-swept  crag  with  the  snow  piled  about  it  in 
treacherous,  drifting  masses.  They  were  hospitably 
received  by  the  brothers  whose  duty  it  was  to  entertain 
the  infrequent  guest.  They  drank  of  the  precious  cor- 
dial, finding  it  rarely  potent  and  reviving.  They  lis- 
tened to  the  great,  ever-echoing  bell,  and  learned  that 
they  were  pioneer  travelers,  in  those  gray  stone  walls, 
over  the  Englishman  whose  restless  feet  have  trodden 
nearly  every  corner  of  the  earth. 

At  three  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  they  arrived,  the  two 
young  Gothamites  stood  with  good  Brother  Cristofer  in 
the  great,  cold  hallway  of  the  monastery  to  watch  the 
monks  march  past  on  their  way  to  the  refectory.  They 


86  Strictly  Business 

came  slowly,  pacing  by  twos,  with  their  heads  bowed, 
treading  noiselessly  with  sandaled  feet  upon  the  rough 
stone  flags.  As  the  procession  slowly  filed  past,  Eyres 
suddenly  gripped  Gilliam  by  the  arm.  "  Look,"  he 
whispered,  eagerly,  "at  the  one  just  opposite  you  now 
—  the  one  on  this  side,  with  his  hand  at  his  waist  —  if 
that  isn't  Johnny  Bellchambers  then  I  never  saw  him ! " 

Gilliam  saw  and  recognized  the  lost  glass  of  fashion. 

"  What  the  deuce,"  said  he,  wonderingly,  "  is  old  Bell 
doing  here?  Tommy,  it  surely  can't  be  he!  Never 
heard  of  Bell  having  a  turn  for  the  religious.  Fact  is, 
I've  heard  him  say  things  when  a  four-in-hand  didn't 
seem  to  tie  up  just  right  that  would  bring  him  up  for 
court-martial  before  any  church." 

"  It's  Bell,  without  a  doubt,"  said  Eyres,  firmly,  "  or 
I'm  pretty  badly  in  need  of  an  oculist.  But  think  of 
Johnny  Bellchambers,  the  Royal  High  Chancellor  of 
swell  togs  and  the  Mahatma  of  pink  teas,  up  here  in  cold 
storage  doing  penance  in  a  snuff-colored  bathrobe !  I 
can't  get  it  straight  in  my  mind.  Let's  ask  the  jolly  old 
boy  that's  doing  the  honors." 

Brother  Cristofer  was  appealed  to  for  information. 
By  that  time  the  monks  had  passed  into  the  refectory. 
He  could  not  tell  to  which  one  they  referred.  Bellcham- 
bers ?  Ah,  the  brothers  of  St.  Gondrau  abandoned  their 
worldly  names  when  they  took  the  vows.  Did  the  gen- 
tlemen wish  to  speak  with  one  of  the  brothers  ?  If  they 
would  come  to  the  refectory  and  indicate  the  one  they 


The  Robe  of  Peace  87 

wished  to  see,  the  reverend  abbot  in  authority  would, 
doubtless,  permit  it. 

Eyres  and  Gilliam  went  into  the  dining  hall  and 
pointed  out  to  Brother  Cristof  er  the  man  they  had  seen. 
Yes,  it  was  Johnny  Bellchambers.  They  saw  his  face 
plainly  now,  as  he  sat  among  the  dingy  brothers,  never 
looking  up,  eating  broth  from  a  coarse,  brown  bowl. 

Permission  to  speak  to  one  of  the  brothers  was 
granted  to  the  two  travelers  by  the  abbot,  and  they 
waited  in  a  reception  room  for  him  to  come.  When  he 
did  come,  treading  softly  in  his  sandals,  both  Eyres  and 
Gilliam  looked  at  him  in  perplexity  and  astonishment. 
It  was  Johnny  Bellchambers,  but  he  had  a  different  look. 
Upon  his  smooth-shaven  face  was  an  expression  of  in- 
effable peace,  of  rapturous  attainment,  of  perfect  and 
complete  happiness.  His  form  was  proudly  erect,  his 
eyes  shone  with  a  serene  and  gracious  light.  He  was  as 
neat  and  well-groomed  as  in  the  old  New  York  days,  but 
how  differently  was  he  clad !  Now  he  seemed  clothed  in 
but  a  single  garment  —  a  long  robe  of  rough  brown 
cloth,  gathered  by  a  cord  at  the  waist,  and  falling  in 
straight,  loose  folds  nearly  to  his  feet.  He  shook, hands 
with  his  visitors  with  his  old  ease  and  grace  of  manner. 
If  there  was  any  embarrassment  in  that  meeting  it  was 
not  manifested  by  Johnny  Bellchambers.  The  room 
had  no  seats ;  they  stood  to  converse. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  old  man,"  said  Eyres,  somewhat 
awkwardly.  "  Wasn't  expecting  to  find  you  up  here. 


88  Strictly  Business 

Not  a  bad  idea,  though,  after  alL  Society's  an  awful 
sham.  Must  be  a  relief  to  shake  the  giddy  whirl  and 
retire  to  —  er  —  contemplation  and  —  er  —  prayer  and 
hymns,  and  those  things." 

"  Oh,  cut  that,  Tommy,"  said  Bellchambers,  cheer- 
fully. "  Don't  be  afraid  that  I'll  pass  around  the  plate. 
I  go  through  these  thing-um-bobs  with  the  rest  of  these 
old  boys  because  they  are  the  rules.  I'm  Brother  Am- 
brose here,  you  know.  I'm  given  just  ten  minutes  to 
talk  to  you  fellows.  That's  rather  a  new  design  in 
waistcoats  you  have  on,  isn't  it,  Gilliam?  Are  they 
wearing  those  things  on  Broadway  now?  " 

"It's  the  same  old  Johnny,"  said  Gilliam,  joyfully. 
"What  the  devil  —  I  mean  why —  Oh,  confound  it! 
what  did  you  do  it  for,  old  man  ?  " 

"  Peel  the  bathrobe,"  pleaded  Eyres,  almost  tearfully, 
"  and  go  back  with  us.  The  old  crowd'll  go  wild  to  sec 
you.  This  isn't  in  your  line,  Bell.  I  know  half  a 
dozen  girls  that  wore  the  willow  on  the  quiet  when  you 
shook  us  in  that  unaccountable  way.  Hand  in  your  res- 
ignation, or  get  a  dispensation,  or  whatever  you  have  to 
do  to  get  a  release  from  this  ice  factory.  You'll  get 
catarrh  here,  Johnny  —  and  —  My  God !  you  haven't 
any  socks  on !  M 

Bellchambers  looked  down  at  his  sandaled  feet  and 
smiled. 

"  You  fellows  don't  understand,"  he  said,  soothingly. 
"  It's  nice  of  you  to  want  me  to  go  back,  but  the  old  life 


The  Robe  of  Peace  89 

will  never  know  me  again.  I  have  reached  here  the  goal 
of  all  my  ambitions.  I  am  entirely  happy  and  con- 
tented. Here  I  shall  remain  for  the  remainder  of  my 
days.  You  see  this  robe  that  I  wear?  "  Bellchambers 
caressingly  touched  the  straight-hanging  garment :  "  At 
last  I  have  found  something  that  will  not  bag  at  the 
knees.  I  have  attained  — " 

At  that  moment  the  deep  boom  of  the  great  brass  bell 
reverberated  through  the  monastery.  It  must  have 
been  a  summons  to  immediate  devotions,  for  Brother  Am- 
brose bowed  his  head,  turned  and  left  the  chamber  with- 
out another  word.  A  slight  wave  of  hia  hand  as  he 
passed  through  the  stone  doorway  seemed  to  say  a  fare- 
well to  his  old  friends.  They  left  the  monastery  with- 
out seeing -him  again. 

And  this  is  the  story  that  Tommy  Eyres  and  Lancelot 
Gilliam  brought  back  with  them  from  their  latest  Euro- 
pean tour. 


1HE  other  day  I  ran  across  my  old  friend  Ferguson 
Pogue.  Pogue  is  a  conscientious  grafter  of  the  highest 
type.  His  headquarters  is  the  Western  Hemisphere, 
and  his  line  of  business  is  anything  from  speculating  in 
town  lots  on  the  Great  Staked  Plains  to  selling  wooden 
toys  in  Connecticut,  made  by  hydraulic  pressure  from 
nutmegs  ground  to  a  pulp. 

Now  and  then  when  Pogue  has  made  a  good  haul  he 
comes  to  New  York  for  a  rest.  He  says  the  jug  of  wine 
and  loaf  of  bread  and  Thou  in  the  wilderness  business  is 
about  as  much  rest  and  pleasure  to  him  as  sliding  down 
the  bumps  at  Coney  would  be  to  President  Taft.  "Give 
me,"  says  Pogue,  "a  big  city  for  my  vacation.  Espe- 
cially New  York.  I'm  not  much  fond  of  New  Yorkers, 
and  Manhattan  is  about  the  only  place  on  the  globe 
where  I  don't  find  any." 

While  in  the  metropolis  Pogue  can  always  be  found 
at  one  of  two  places.  One  is  a  little  second-hand  book- 
shop on  Fourth  Avenue,  where  he  reads  books  about  his 
hobbies,  Mahometanism  and  taxidermy.  I  found  him  at 
the  other  —  his  hall  bedroom  in  Eighteenth  Street  — 

90 


The  Girl  and  the  Graft  91 

where  he  sat  in  his  stocking  feet  trying  to  pluck  "  The 
Banks  of  the  Wabash  "  out  of  a  small  zither.  Four 
years  he  has  practised  this  tune  without  arriving  near 
enough  to  cast  the  longest  trout  line  to  the  water's  edge. 
On  the  dresser  lay  a  blued-steel  Colt's  forty-five  and  a 
tight  roll  of  tens  and  twenties  large  enough  around  to 
belong  to  the  spring  rattlesnake-story  class.  A  cham- 
bermaid with  a  room-cleaning  air  fluttered  nearby  in  the 
hall,  unable  to  enter  or  to  flee,  scandalized  by  the  stock- 
ing feet,  aghast  at  the  Colt's,  yet  powerless,  with  her  met- 
ropolitan instincts,  to  remove  herself  beyond  the  magic 
influence  of  the  yellow-hued  roll. 

I  sat  on  his  trunk  while  Ferguson  Pogue  talked.  No 
one  could  be  franker  or  more  candid  in  his  conversation. 
Beside  his.  expression  the  cry  of  Henry  James  for  lacteal 
nourishment  at  the  age  of  one  month  would  have  seemed 
like  a  Chaldean  cryptogram.  He  told  me  stories  of  his 
profession  with  pride,  for  he  considered  it  an  art.  And 
I  was  curious  enough  to  ask  him  whether  he  had  known 
any  women  who  followed  it. 

"  Ladies  ? "  said  Pogue,  with  Western  chivalry. 
"  Well,  not  to  any  great  extent.  They  don't  amount  to 
much  in  special  lines  of  graft,  because  they're  all  so 
busy  in  general  lines.  What?  Why,  they  have  to. 
Who's  got  the  money  in  the  world?  The  men.  Did 
you  ever  know  a  man  to  give  a  woman  a  dollar  without 
any  consideration?  A  man  will  shell  out  his  dust  to 
another  man  free  and  easy  and  gratis.  But  if  he  drops 


92  Strictly  Business 

a  penny  in  one  of  the  machines  run  by  the  Madam  Eve's 
Daughters'  Amalgamated  Association  and  the  pineapple 
chewing  gum  don't  fall  out  when  he  pulls  the  lever  you 
can  hear  him  kick  to  the  superintendent  four  blocks 
away.  Man  is  the  hardest  proposition  a  woman  has  to 
go  up  against.  He's  a  low-grade  one,  and  she  has  to 
work  overtime  to  make  him  pay.  Two  times  out  of  five 
she's  salted.  She  can't  put  in  crushers  and  costly  ma- 
chinery. He'd  notice  'em  and  be  onto  the  game.  They 
have  to  pan  out  what  they  get,  and  it  hurts  their  tender 
hands.  Some  of  'em  are  natural  sluice  troughs  and  can 
carry  out  $1,000  to  the  ton.  The  dry-eyed  ones  have 
to  depend  on  signed  letters,  false  hair,  sympathy,  the 
kangaroo  walk,  cowhide  whips,  ability  to  cook,  senti- 
mental juries,  conversational  powers,  silk  underskirts, 
ancestry,  rouge,  anonymous  letters,  violet  sachet  pow- 
ders, witnesses,  revolvers,  pneumatic  forms,  carbolic 
acid,  moonlight,  cold  cream  and  the  evening  newspa- 
pers." 


You  are  outrageous,  Ferg,"  I  said.  "  Surely  there 
is  none  of  this  *  graft,'  as  you  call  it,  in  a  perfect  and 
harmonious  matrimonial  union !  " 

"Well,"  said  Pogue,  "nothing  that  would  justify 
you  every  time  in  calling  up  Police  Headquarters  and 
ordering  out  the  reserves  and  a  vaudeville  manager  on  a 
dead  run.  But  it's  this  way:  Suppose  you're  a  Fifth 
Avenue  millionaire,  soaring  high,  on  the  right  side  of 
copper  and  cappers. 


The  Girl  and  the  Graft  93 

"  You  come  home  at  night  and  bring  a  $9,000,000  dia- 
mond brooch  to  the  lady  who's  staked  you  for  a  claim. 
You  hand  it  over.  She  says,  *  Oh,  George !  *  and  looks 
to  see  if  it's  backed.  She  comes  up  and  kisses  you. 
You've  waited  for  it.  You  get  it.  All  right.  It's 
graft. 

"  But  I'm  telling  you  about  Artemisia  Blye.  She 
was  from  Kansas  and  she  suggested  corn  in  all  of  its 
phases.  Her  hair  was  as  yellow  as  the  silk;  her  form 
was  as  tall  and  graceful  as  a  stalk  in  the  low  grounds 
during  a  wet  summer ;  her  eyes  were  as  big  and  startling 
as  bunions,  and  green  was  her  favorite  color. 

"  On  my  last  trip  into  the  cool  recesses  of  your  se- 
questered city  I  met  a  human  named  Vaucross.  He  was 
worth  —  that  is,  he  had  a  million.  He  told  me  he  was 
in  business  on  the  street.  *  A  sidewalk  merchant  ?  '  sa}-s 
I,  sarcastic.  *  Exactly,'  says  he.  *  Senior  partner  of 
a  paving  concern.' 

"  I  kind  of  took  to  him.  For  this  reason,  I  met  him 
on  Broadway  one  night  when  I  was  out  of  heart,  luck, 
tobacco  and  place.  He  was  all  silk  hat,  diamonds  and 
front.  He  was  all  front.  If  you  had  gone  behind  him 
you  would  have  only  looked  yourself  in  the  face.  I 
looked  like  a  cross  between  Count  Tolstoy  and  a  June 
lobster.  I  was  out  of  luck.  I  had  —  but  let  me  lay 
my  eyes  on  that  dealer  again. 

"  Vaucross  stopped  and  talked  to  me  a  few  minutes 
and  then  he  took  me  to  a  high-toned  restaurant  to  eat 


94  Strictly  Business 

dinner.  There  was  music,  and  then  some  Beethoven,  and 
Bordelaise  sauce,  and  cussing  in  French,  and  frangi- 
pangi,  and  some  hauteur  and  cigarettes.  When  I  am 
flush  I  know  them  places. 

"  I  declare,  I  must  have  looked  as  bad  as  a  magazine 
artist  sitting  there  without  any  money  and  my  hair  all 
rumpled  like  I  was  booked  to  read  a  chapter  from  '  El- 
sie's School  Days  '  at  a  Brooklyn  Bohemian  smoker.  But 
Vaucross  treated  me  like  a  bear  hunter's  guide.  He 
wasn't  afraid  of  hurting  the  waiter's  feelings. 

"  '  Mr.  Pogue,'  he  explains  to  me,  '  I  am  using  you.' 
"  *  Go  on,'  says  I ;  '  I  hope  you  don't  wake  up.' 
"  And  then  he  tells  me,  you  know,  the  kind  of  man  he 
was.  He  was  a  New  Yorker.  His  whole  ambition  was 
to  be  noticed.  He  wanted  to  be  conspicuous.  He 
wanted  people  to  point  him  out  and  bow  to  him,  and  tell 
others  who  he  was.  He  said  it  had  been  the  desire  of  his 
life  always.  He  didn't  have  but  a  million,  so  he  couldn't 
attract  attention  by  spending  money.  He  said  he  tried 
to  get  into  public  notice  one  time  by  planting  a  little 
public  square  on  the  east  side  with  garlic  for  free  use  of 
the  poor;  but  Carnegie  heard  of  it,  and  covered  it  over 
at  once  with  a  library  in  the  Gaelic  language.  Three 
times  he  had  jumped  in  the  way  of  automobiles ;  but  the 
only  result  was  five  broken  ribs  and  a  notice  in  the  pa- 
pers that  an  unknown  man,  five  feet  ten,  with  four  amal- 
gam-filled teeth,  supposed  to  be  the  last  of  the  famous 
Red  Leary  gang  had  been  run  over. 


The  Girl  and  the  Graft  95 

"  *  Ever  try  the  reporters  ?  '  I  asked  him. 

"  *  Last  month,'  says  Mr.  Vaucross,  '  my  expenditure 
for  lunches  to  reporters  was  $124.80.' 

"  *  Get  anything  out  of  that?  '  I  asks. 

"  *  That  reminds  me,'  says  he ;  '  add  $8.50  for  pepsin. 
Yes,  I  got  indigestion.' 

"  *  How  am  I  supposed  to  push  along  your  scramble 
for  prominence?  '  I  inquires.  '  Contrast?  ' 

"  '  Something  of  that  sort  to-night,'  says  Vaucross. 
'  It  grieves  me ;  but  I  am  forced  to  resort  to  eccentricity.' 
And  here  he  drops  his  napkin  in  his  soup  and  rises  up 
and  bows  to  a  gent  who  is  devastating  a  potato  under  a 
palm  across  the  room. 

"  '  The  Police  Commissioner,'  says  my  climber,  grat- 
ified. "  '  Friend,'  says  I,  in  a  hurry,  *  have  ambitions 
but  don't  kick  a  rung  out  of  your  ladder.  When  you 
use  me  as  a  stepping  stone  to  salute  the  police  you  spoil 
my  appetite  on  the  grounds  that  I  may  be  degraded  and 
incriminated.  Be  thoughtful.' 

"  At  the  Quaker  City  squab  en  casserole  the  idea 
about  Artemisia  Blye  comes  to  me. 

"  '  Suppose  I  can  manage  to  get  you  in  the  papers,' 
says  I  — '  a  column  or  two  every  day  in  all  of  'em  and 
your  picture  in  most  of  'em  for  a  week.  How  much 
would  it  be  worth  to  you  ? ' 

"  '  Ten  thousand  dollars,'  says  Vaucross,  warm  in  a 
minute.  '  But  no  murder,'  says  he ;  *  and  I  won't  wear 
pink  pants  at  a  cotillon.' 


96  Strictly  Business 

"  *  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to,'  says  I.  *  This  is  honor- 
able,  stylish  and  uneffeminate.  Tell  the  waiter  to  bring 
a  demi  tasse  and  some  other  beans,  and  I  will  disclose  to 
you  the  opus  moderandi.' 

"  We  closed  the  deal  an  hour  later  in  the  rococo  rouge 
et  noise  room.  I  telegraphed  that  night  to  Miss  Arte- 
misia in  Salina.  She  took  a  couple  of  photographs  and 
an  autograph  letter  to  an  elder  in  the  Fourth  Presby- 
terian Church  in  the  morning,  and  got  some  transporta- 
tion and  $80.  She  stopped  in  Topeka  long  enough  to 
trade  a  flashlight  interior  and  a  valentine  to  the  vice- 
president  of  a  trust  company  for  a  mileage  book  and  a 
package  of  five-dollar  notes  with  $250  scrawled  on  the 
band. 

"  The  fifth  evening  after  she  got  my  wire  she  was 
waiting,  all  decolletee  and  dressed  up,  for  me  and  Vau- 
cross  to  take  her  to  dinner  in  one  of  these  New  York 
feminine  apartment  houses  where  a  man  can't  get  in  un- 
less he  plays  bezique  and  smokes  depilatory  powder  ci- 
garettes. 

"  *  She's  a  stunner,'  says  Vaucross  when  he  saw  her. 
*  They'll  give  her  a  two-column  cut  sure.' 

"  This  was  the  scheme  the  three  of  us  concocted.  It 
was  business  straight  through.  Vaucross  was  to  rush 
Miss  Blye  with  all  the  style  and  display  and  emotion  he 
could  for  a  month.  Of  course,  that  amounted  to  noth- 
ing as  far  as  his  ambitions  were  concerned.  The  sight 
of  a  man  in  a  white  tie  and  patent  leather  pumps  pour- 


The  Girl  and  the  Graft  97 

ing  greenbacks  through  the  large  end  of  a  cornucopia 
to  purchase  nutriment  and  heartsease  for  tall,  willowy 
blondes  in  New  York  is  as  common  a  sight  as  blue  tur- 
tles in  delirium  tremens.  But  he  was  to  write  her  love 
letters  —  the  worst  kind  of  love  letters,  such  as  your  wife 
publishes  after  you  are  dead  —  every  day.  At  the  end 
of  the  month  he  was  to  drop  her,  and  she  would  bring 
suit  for  $100,000  for  breach  of  promise. 

"  Miss  Artemisia  was  to  get  $10,000.  If  she  won  the 
suit  that  was  all ;  and  if  she  lost  she  was  to  get  it  any- 
how. There  was  a  signed  contract  to  that  effect. 

"  Sometimes  they  had  me  out  with  'em,  but  not  of- 
ten. I  couldn't  keep  up  to  their  style.  She  used  to 
pull  out  his  notes  and  criticize  them  like  bills  of  lading. 

"  '  Say,  you!'  she'd  say.  '  What  do  you  call  this  — • 
Letter  to  a  Hardware  Merchant  from  His  Nephew  on 
Learning  that  His  Aunt  Has  Nettlerash?  You  East- 
ern duffers  know  as  much  about  writing  love  letters  as  a 
Kansas  grasshopper  does  about  tugboats.  "  My  dear 
Miss  Blye !  " —  wouldn't  that  put  pink  icing  and  a  little 
red  sugar  bird  on  your  bridal  cake?  How  long  do  you 
expect  to  hold  an  audience  in  a  court-room  with  that 
kind  of  stuff?  You  want  to  get  down  to  business,  and 
call  me  "  Tweedlums  Babe  "  and  "  Honeysuckle,"  and 
sign  yourself  "  Mama's  Own  Big  Bad  Puggy  Wuggy 
Boy  "  if  you  want  any  limelight  to  concentrate  upon 
your  sparse  gray  hairs.  Get  sappy.' 

"  After  that  Vaucross  dipped  his  pen  in  the  indelible 


98  Strictly  Business 

tabasco.  His  notes  read  like  something  or  other  in  the 
original.  I  could  see  a  jury  sitting  up,  and  women 
tearing  one  another's  hats  to  hear  'em  read.  And  I 
could  see  piling  up  for  Mr.  Vaucross  as  much  notorious- 
ness  as  Archbishop  Cranmer  or  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
or  cheese-on-salad  ever  enjoyed.  He  seemed  mighty 
pleased  at  the  prospects. 

"  They  agreed  on  a  night ;  and  I  stood  on  Fifth  Av- 
enue outside  a  solemn  restaurant  and  watched  'em.  A 
process-server  walked  in  and  handed  Vaucross  the  papers 
at  his  table.  Everybody  looked  at  'em ;  and  he  looked 
as  proud  as  Cicero.  I  went  back  to  my  room  and  lit  a 
five-cent  cigar,  for  I  knew  the  $10,000  was  as  good  as 
ours. 

"  About  two  hours  later  somebody  knocked  at  my 
<3oor.  There  stood  Vaucross  and  Miss  Artemisia,  and 
she  was  clinging  —  yes,  sir,  clinging  —  to  his  arm. 
And  they  tells  me  they'd  been  out  and  got  married. 
And  they  articulated  some  trivial  cadences  about  love  and 
such.  And  they  laid  down  a  bundle  on  the  table  and 
said  *  Good  night '  and  left. 

"  And  that's  why  I  say,"  concluded  Ferguson  Pogue, 
"  that  a  woman  is  too  busy  occupied  with  her  natural 
vocation  and  instinct  of  graft  such  as  is  given  her  for 
self-preservation  and  amusement  to  make  any  great  suc- 
cess in  special  lines." 

"  What  was  in  the  bundle  that  they  left?  "  I  asked, 
with  my  usual  curiosity. 


The  Girl  and  the  Graft  99 

"  Why,"  said  Ferguson,  "  there  was  a  scalper's  rail- 
road ticket  as  far  as  Kansas  City  and  two  pairs  of  Mr. 
Vaucross's  old  pants." 


IX 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  TAME 

VY  HEN  the  inauguration  was  accomplished  —  the  pro* 
ceedings  were  made  smooth  by  the  presence  of  the 
Rough  Riders  —  it  is  well  known  that  a  herd  of  those 
competent  and  loyal  ex-warriors  paid  a  visit  to  the  big 
city.  The  newspaper  reporters  dug  out  of  their  trunks 
the  old  broad-brimmed  hats  and  leather  belts  that  they 
wear  to  North  Beach  fish  fries,  and  mixed  with  the 
visitors.  No  damage  was  done  beyond  the  employment 
of  the  wonderful  plural  "  tenderfeet "  in  each  of  the 
scribe's  stories.  The  Westerners  mildly  contemplated 
tJhe  skyscrapers  as  high  as  the  third  story,  yawned  at 
Broadway,  hunched  down  in  the  big  chairs  in  hotel  corri- 
dors, and  altogether  looked  as  bored  and  dejected  as  a 
member  of  Ye  Ancient  and  Honorable  Artillery  sepa- 
rated during  a  sham  battle  from  his  valet. 

Out  of  this  sightseeing  delegation  of  good  King 
Teddy's  Gentlemen  of  the  Royal  Bear-hounds  dropped 
one  Greenbrier  Nye,  of  Pin  Feather,  Ariz. 

The  daily  cyclone  of  Sixth  Avenue's  rush  hour  swept 
him  away  from  the  company  of  his  pardners  true.  The 

dust  from  a  thousand  rustling  skirts  filled  his  eyes.     The 

100 


The  Call  of  the  Tame  101 

mighty  roar  of  trains  rushing  across  the  sky  deafened 
him.  The  lightning-flash  of  twice  ten  hundred  beaming 
eyes  confused  his  vision. 

The  storm  was  so  sudden  and  tremendous  that  Green- 
brier's  first  impulse  was  to  lie  down  and  grab  a  root. 
And  then  he  remembered  that  the  disturbance  was  hu- 
man, and  not  elemental ;  and  he  backed  out  of  it  with  a 
grin  into  a  doorway. 

The  reporters  had  written  that  but  for  the  wide- 
brimmed  hats  the  West  was  not  visible  upon  these 
gauchos  of  the  North.  Heaven  sharpen  their  eyes ! 
The  suit  of  black  diagonal,  wrinkled  in  impossible  places  ; 
the  bright  blue  four-in-hand,  factory  tied;  the  low, 
turned-down  collar,  pattern  of  the  days  of  Seymour  and 
Blair,  white  glazed  as  the  letters  on  the  window  of  the 
open-day-and-night-except-Sunday  restaurants ;  the  out- 
curve  at  the  knees  from  the  straddle  grip ;  the  peculiar 
spread  of  the  half -closed  right  thumb  and  fingers  from 
the  stiff  hold  upon  the  circling  lasso ;  the  deeply  absorbed 
weather  tan  that  the  hottest  sun  of  Cape  May  can  never 
equal;  the  seldom-winking  blue  eyes  that  unconsciously 
divided  the  rushing  crowds  into  fours,  as  though  they 
were  being  counted  out  of  a  corral ;  the  segregated  lone- 
liness and  solemnity  of  expression,  as  of  an  Emperor  or 
of  one  whose  horizons  have  not  intruded  upon  him  nearer 
than  a  day's  ride  —  these  brands  of  the  West  were  set 
upon  Greenbrier  Nye.  Oh,  yes ;  he  wore  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  gentle  reader — just  like  those  the  Madi- 


102  Strictly  Business 

son  Square  Post  Office  mail  carriers  wear  when  they  go 
up  to  Bronx  Park  on  Sunday  afternoons. 

Suddenly  Greenbrier  Nye  jumped  into  the  drifting 
herd  of  metropolitan  cattle,  seized  upon  a  man,  dragged 
him  out  of  the  stream  and  gave  him  a  buffet  upon  his 
collarbone  that  sent  him  reeling  against  a  wall. 

The  victim  recovered  his  hat,  with  the  angry  look  of 
a  New  Yorker  who  has  suffered  an  outrage  and  intends 
to  write  to  the  Trib.  about  it.  But  he  looked  at  his 
assailant,  and  knew  that  the  blow  was  in  consideration 
of  love  and  affection  after  the  manner  of  the  West, 
which  greets  its  friends  with  contumely  and  uproar  and 
pounding  fists,  and  receives  its  enemies  in  decorum  and 
order,  such  as  the  judicious  placing  of  the  welcoming 
bullet  demands. 

"  God  in  the  mountains ! "  cried  Greenbrier,  holding 
fast  to  the  foreleg  of  his  cull.  "  Can  this  be  Longhorn 
Merritt?  " 

The  other  man  was  —  oh,  look  on  Broadway  any  day 
for  the  pattern  —  business  man  —  latest  rolled-brim 
derby  —  good  barber,  business,  digestion  and  tailor. 

"  Greenbrier  Nye ! "  he  exclaimed,  grasping  the  hand 
that  had  smitten  him.  "  My  dear  fellow !  So  glad  to 
see  you !  How  did  you  come  to  —  oh,  to  be  sure  —  the 
inaugural  ceremonies  —  I  remember  you  joined  the 
Rough  Riders.  You  must  come  and  have  luncheon  with 
me,  of  course." 

Greenbrier  pinned  him  sadly  but  firmly  to  the  wall 


The  Call  of  the  Tame  103 

with  a  hand  the  size,  shape  and  color  of  a  McClellan 
saddle. 

"  Longy,"  he  said,  in  a  melancholy  voice  that  dis- 
turbed traffic,  "  what  have  they  been  doing  to  you? 
You  act  just  like  a  citizen.  They  done  made  you  into 
an  inmate  of  the  city  directory.  You  never  made  no 
such  Johnny  Branch  execration  of  yourself  as  that  out 
on  the  Gila.  *  Come  and  have  lunching  with  me ! '  You 
never  defined  grub  by  any  such  terms  of  reproach  in  them 
days." 

"  I've  been  living  in  New  York  seven  years,"  said 
Merritt.  "  It's  been  eight  since  we  punched  cows  to- 
gether in  Old  Man  Garcia's  outfit.  Well,  let's  go  to  a 
cafe,  anyhow.  It  sounds  good  to  hear  it  called  '  grub  ' 
again." 

They  picked  their  way  through  the  crowd  to  a  hotel, 
and  drifted,  as  by  a  natural  law,  to  the  bar. 

"  Speak  up,"  invited  Greenbrier. 

"  A  dry  Martini,"  said  Merritt. 

"  Oh,  Lord !  "  cried  Greenbrier ;  "  and  yet  me  and  you 
once  saw  the  same  pink  Gila  monsters  crawling  up  the 
walls  of  the  same  hotel  in  Canon  Diablo!  A  dry  —  but 
let  that  pass.  Whiskey  straight  —  and  they're  on 
you." 

Merritt  smiled,  and  paid. 

They  lunched  in  a  small  extension  of  the  dining  room 
that  connected  with  the  cafe.  Merritt  dexterously  di- 
verted his  friend's  choice,  that  hovered  over  ham  and 


104  Strictly  Business 

eggs,  to  a  puree  of  celery,  a  salmon  cutlet,  a  partridge 
pie  and  a  desirable  salad. 

"  On  the  day,"  said  Greenbrier,  grieved  and  thunder- 
ous, "  when  I  can't  hold  but  one  drink  before  eating 
when  I  meet  a  friend  I  ain't  seen  in  eight  years  at  a  2  by 
4  table  in  a  thirty-cent  town  at  1  o'clock  on  the  third 
day  of  the  week,  I  want  nine  broncos  to  kick  me  forty 
times  over  a  640-acre  section  of  land.  Get  them  sta- 
tistics?" 

"  Right,  old  man,"  laughed  Merritt.  "  Waiter,  bring 
an  absinthe  frappe  and  —  what's  yours,  Greenbrier?  " 

"  Whiskey  straight,"  mourned  Nye.  "  Out  of  the 
neck  of  a  bottle  you  used  to  take  it,  Longy  —  straight 
out  of  the  neck  of  a  bottle  on  a  galloping  pony  —  Ari- 
zona redeye,  not  this  ab —  oh,  what's  the  use  ?  They're 
on  you." 

Merritt  slipped  the  wine  card  under  his  glass. 

"  All  right.  I  suppose  you  think  I'm  spoiled  by  the 
city.  I'm  as  good  a  Westerner  as  you  are,  Greenbrier; 
but,  somehow,  I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  go  back  out 
there.  New  York  is  comfortable  —  comfortable.  I 
make  a  good  living,  and  I  live  it.  No  more  wet  blankets 
and  riding  herd  in  snowstorms,  and  bacon  and  cold  cof- 
fee, and  blowouts  once  in  six  months  for  me.  I  reckon 
I'll  hang  out  here  in  the  future.  We'll  take  in  the  the- 
atre to-night,  Greenbrier,  and  after  that  we'll  dine 
at—" 


The  Call  of  the  Tame  105 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  you  are,  Merritt,"  said  Green- 
brier,  laying  one  elbow  in  his  salad  and  the  other  in  his 
butter.  "  You  are  a  concentrated^  effete,  unconditional, 
short-sleeved,  gotch-eared  Miss  Sally  Walker.  God 
made  you  perpendicular  and  suitable  to  ride  straddle  and 
use  cuss  words  in  the  original.  Wherefore  you  have 
suffered  his  handiwork  to  elapse  by  removing  yourself  to 
New  York  and  putting  on  little  shoes  tied  with  strings, 
and  making  faces  when  you  talk.  I've  seen  you  rope 
and  tie  a  steer  in  4$l/2.  If  you  was  to  see  one  now 
you'd  write  to  the  Police  Commissioner  about  it.  And 
these  flapdoodle  drinks  that  you  inoculate  your  system 
with  —  these  little  essences  of  cowsh'p  with  acorns  in 
'em,  and  paregoric  flip  —  they  ain't  anyways  in  assent 
with  the  cordiality  of  manhood.  I  hate  to  see  you  this 
way." 

"  Well,  Greenbrier,"  said  Merritt,  with  apology  in 
his  tone,  "  in  a  way  you  are  right.  Sometimes  I  do  feel 
like  I  was  being  raised  on  the  bottle.  But,  I  tell  you, 
New  York  is  comfortable  —  comfortable.  There's 
something  about  it  —  the  sights  and  the  crowds,  and 
the  way  it  changes  every  day,  and  the  very  air  of  it  that 
seems  to  tie  a  one-mile-long  stake  rope  around  a  man's 
neck,  with  the  other  end  fastened  somewhere  about 
Thirty-fourth  Street.  I  don't  know  what  it  is." 

"  God  knows,"  said  Greenbrier  sadly,  "  and  I  know. 
The  East  has  gobbled  you  up.  You  was  venison,  and 


106  Strictly  Business 

now  you're  real.  You  put  me  in  mind  of  a  japonica  in 
a  window.  You've  been  signed,  sealed  and  diskivered. 
Requiescat  in  hoc  signo.  You  make  me  thirsty." 

"  A  green  chartreuse  here,"  said  Merritt  to  the  waiter. 

"  Whiskey  straight,"  sighed  Greenbrier,  "  and  they're 
on  you,  you  renegade  of  the  round-ups." 

"  Guilty,  with  an  application  for  mercy,"  said  Mer- 
ritt. "  You  don't  know  how  it  is,  Greenbrier.  It's  so 
comfortable  here  that  — " 

"  Please  loan  me  your  smelling  salts,"  pleaded  Green- 
brier.  "  If  I  hadn't  seen  you  once  bluff  three  bluffers 
from  Mazatzal  City  with  an  empty  gun  in  Phoenix — " 

Greenbrier's  voice  died  away  in  pure  grief. 

"  Cigars ! "  he  called  harshly  to  the  waiter,  to  hide 
his  emotion. 

"  A  pack  of  Turkish  cigarettes  for  mine,"  said  Mer- 
ritt 

"  They're  on  you,"  chanted  Greenbrier,  struggling  to 
conceal  his  contempt. 

At  seven  they  dined  in  the  Where-to-Dine-Well  col- 
umn. 

That  evening  a  galaxy  had  assembled  there.  Bright 
shone  the  lights  o'er  fair  women  and  br  —  let  it  go,  any- 
how —  brave  men.  The  orchestra  played  charm- 
ingly. Hardly  had  a  tip  from  a  diner  been  placed  in 
its  hands  by  a  waiter  when  it  would  burst  forth  into 
soniferousness.  The  more  beer  you  contributed  to  it 
the  more  Meyerbeer  it  gave  you.  Which  is  reciprocity. 


The  Call  of  the  Tame  107 

Merritt  put  forth  exertions  on  the  dinner.  Green- 
brier  was  his  old  friend,  and  he  liked  him.  He  per- 
suaded him  to  drink  a  cocktail. 

"  I  take  the  horehound  tea,"  said  Greenbrier,  "  for 
old  times'  sake.  But  I'd  prefer  whiskey  straight. 
They're  on  you." 

"  Right !  "  said  Merritt.  "  Now,  run  your  eye  down 
that  bill  of  fare  and  see  if  it  seems  to  hitch  on  any  of 
the  items." 

"  Lay  me  on  my  lava  bed ! "  said  Greenbrier,  with 
bulging  eyes.  "  All  these  specimens  of  nutriment  in  the 
grub  wagon  !  What's  this  ?  Horse  with  the  heaves  ?  I 
pass.  But  look  along !  Here's  truck  for  twenty  round- 
ups all  spelled  out  in  different  sections.  Wait  till  I 
see." 

The  viands  ordered,  Merritt  turned  to  the  wine  list. 

"  This  Medoc  isn't  bad,"  he  suggested. 

"  You're  the  doc,"  said  Greenbrier.  "  I'd  rather 
have  whiskey  straight.  It's  on  you." 

Greenbrier  looked  around  the  room.  The  waiter 
brought  things  and  took  dishes  away.  He  was  observ- 
ing. He  saw  a  New  York  restaurant  crowd  enjoying 
itself. 

"  How  was  the  range  when  you  left  the  Gila  ?  "  asked 
Merritt. 

"  Fine,"  said  Greenbrier.  "  You  see  that  lady  in  the 
red  speckled  silk  at  that  table?  Well,  she  could  warm 
over  her  beans  at  my  campfire.  Yes,  the  range  was 


108  Strictly  Business 

good.  She  looks  as  nice  as  a  white  mustang  I  see  once 
on  Black  River." 

When  the  coffee  came,  Greenbrier  put  one  foot  on  the 
seat  of  the  chair  next  to  him. 

"  You  said  it  was  a  comfortable  town,  Longy,"  he 
said,  meditatively.  "  Yes,  it's  a  comfortable  town.  It's 
different  from  the  plains  in  a  blue  norther.  What  did 
you  call  that  mess  in  the  crock  with  the  handle,  Longy? 
Oh,  yes,  squabs  in  a  cash  roll.  They're  worth  the  roll. 
That  white  mustang  had  just  such  a  way  of  turning  his 
head  and  shaking  his  mane  —  look  at  her,  Longy.  If  I 
thought  I  could  sell  out  my  ranch  at  a  fair  price,  I  be- 
lieve I'd  — 

"  Gyar  —  song !  "  he  suddenly  cried,  in  a  voice  that 
paralyzed  every  knife  and  fork  in  the  restaurant. 

The  waiter  dived  toward  the  table. 

"  Two  more  of  them  cocktail  drinks,"  ordered  Green- 
brier. 

Merritt  looked  at  him  and  smiled  significantly. 

"  They're  on  me,"  said  Greenbrier,  blowing  a  puff  of 
smoke  to  the  ceiling. 


X 

THE  UNKNOWN  QUANTITY 

iHE  poet  Longfellow  —  or  was  it  Confucius,  the  in- 
rentor  of  wisdom  ?  —  remarked : 

"  Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest; 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem." 

As  mathematics  are  —  or  is :  thanks,  old  subscriber ! 
; — the  only  just  rule  by  which  questions  of  life  can  be 
measured,  let  us,  by  all  means,  adjust  our  theme  to  the 
straight  edge  and  the  balanced  column  of  the  great  god- 
dess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four.  Figures  —  unassail- 
able sums  in  addition  —  shall  be  set  over  against  what- 
ever opposing  element  there  may  be. 

A  mathematician,  after  scanning  the  above  two  lines 
of  poetry,  would  say :  "  Ahem !  young  gentlemen,  if  we 
assume  that  X  plus  —  that  is,  that  life  is  real  —  then 
things  (all  of  which  life  includes)  are  real.  Anything 
that  is  real  is  what  it  seems.  Then  if  we  consider  the 
proposition  that  *  things  are  not  what  they  seem,' 
why—" 

But  this  is  heresy,  and  not  poesy.     We  woo  the  sweet 

nymph  Algebra ;  we  would  conduct  you  into  the  presence 

109 


110  Strictly  Business 

of  the  elusive,  seductive,  pursued,  satisfying,  mysterious 
X. 

Not  long  before  the  beginning  of  this  century,  Septi- 
mus Kinsolving,  an  old  New  Yorker,  invented  an  idea. 
He  originated  the  discovery  that  bread  is  made  from 
flour  and  not  from  wheat  futures.  Perceiving  that  the 
flour  crop  was  short,  and  that  the  Stock  Exchange  was 
having  no  perceptible  effect  on  the  growing  wheat,  Mr. 
Kinsolving  cornered  the  flour  market. 

The  result  was  that  when  you  or  my  landlady  (before 
the  war  she  never  had  to  turn  her  hand  to  anything; 
Southerners  accommodated)  bought  a  five-cent  loaf  of 
bread  you  laid  down  an  additional  two  cents,  which  went 
to  Mr.  Kinsolving  as  a  testimonial  to  his  perspicacity. 

A  second  result  was  that  Mr.  Kinsolving  quit  the  game 
with  $2,000,000  prof  —  er  —  rake-off. 

Mr.  Kinsolving's  son  Dan  was  at  college  when  tha 
mathematical  experiment  in  breadstuffs  was  made.  Dan 
came  home  during  vacation,  and  found  the  old  gentle- 
man in  a  red  dressing-gown  reading  "  Little  Dorrit  "  on 
the  porch  of  his  estimable  red  brick  mansion  in  Washing- 
ton Square.  He  had  retired  from  business  with  enough 
extra  two-cent  pieces  from  bread  buyers  to  reach,  if  laid 
side  by  side,  fifteen  times  around  the  earth  and  lap  as 
far  as  the  public  debt  of  Paraguay. 

Dan  shook  hands  with  his  father,  and  hurried  over  to 
Greenwich  Village  to  see  his  old  high-school  friend,  Ken- 
witz.  Dan  had  always  admired  Kenwitz.  Kenwitz  was 


The  Unknown  Quantity  111 

pale,  curly-haired,  intense,  serious,  mathematical,  studi- 
ous, altruistic,  socialistic  and  the  natural  foe  of  oli- 
garchies. Kenwitz  had  foregone  college,  and  was  learn- 
ing watch-making  in  his  father's  jewelry  store.  Dan 
was  smiling,  jovial,  easy-tempered  and  tolerant  alike  of 
kings  and  ragpickers.  The  two  foregathered  joyously, 
being  opposites.  And  then  Dan  went  back  to  college, 
and  Kenwitz  to  his  mainsprings  —  and  to  his  private  li- 
brary in  the  rear  of  the  jewelry  shop. 

Four  years  later  Dan  came  back  to  Washington 
Square  with  the  accumulations  of  B.  A.  and  two  years 
of  Europe  thick  upon  him.  He  took  a  filial  look  at 
Septimus  Kinsolving's  elaborate  tombstone  in  Green- 
wood, and  a  tedious  excursion  through  typewritten  docu- 
ments with  the  family  lawyer;  and  then,  feeling  himself 
a  lonely  and  hopeless  millionaire,  hurried  down  to  the 
old  jewelry  store  across  Sixth  Avenue. 

Kenwitz  unscrewed  a  magnifying  glass  from  his  eye, 
routed  out  his  parent  from  a  dingy  rear  room,  and  aban- 
doned the  interior  of  watches  for  outdoors.  He  went 
with  Dan,  and  they  sat  on  a  bench  in  Washington 
Square.  Dan  had  not  changed  much ;  he  was  stalwart, 
and  had  a  dignity  that  was  inclined  to  relax  into  a  grin. 
Kenwitz  was  more  serious,  more  intense,  more  learned, 
philosophical  and  socialistic. 

"  I  know  about  it  now,"  said  Dan,  finally.  "  I 
pumped  it  out  of  the  eminent  legal  lights  that  turned 
over  to  me  poor  old  dad's  collection  of  bonds  and  boodle. 


112  Strictly  Business 

It  amounts  to  $2,000,000,  Ken.  And  I  am  told  that  he 
squeezed  it  out  of  the  chaps  that  pay  their  pennies  for 
loaves  of  bread  at  the  little  bakeries  around  the  corner. 
You've  studied  economics,  Dan,  and  you  know  all  about 
monopolies,  and  the  masses,  and  octopuses,  and  the  rights 
of  laboring  people.  I  never  thought  about  those  things 
before.  Football  and  trying  to  be  white  to  my  fellow- 
man  were  about  the  extent  of  my  college  curriculum. 

"  But  since  I  came  back  and  found  out  how  dad  made 
his  money  I've  been  thinking.  I'd  like  awfully  well  to 
pay  back  those  chaps  who  had  to  give  up  too  much 
money  for  bread.  I  know  it  would  buck  the  line  of  my 
income  for  a  good  many  yards ;  but  I'd  like  to  make  it 
square  with  'em.  Is  there  any  way  it  can  be  done,  old 
Ways  and  Means  ?  " 

Kenwitz's  big  black  eyes  glowed  fierily.  His  thin, 
intellectual  face  took  on  almost  a  sardonic  cast.  He 
caught  Dan's  arm  with  the  grip  of  a  friend  and  a  judge. 

"  You  can't  do  it !  "  he  said,  emphatically.  "  One  of 
the  chief  punishments  of  you  men  of  ill-gotten  wealth  is 
that  when  you  do  repent  you  find  that  you  have  lost  the 
power  to  make  reparation  or  restitution.  I  admire  your 
good  intentions,  Dan,  but  you  can't  do  anything.  Those 
people  were  robbed  of  their  precious  pennies.  It's  too 
late  to  remedy  the  evil.  You  can't  pay  them  back." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Dan,  lighting  his  pipe,  "  we 
couldn't  hunt  up  every  one  of  the  duffers  and  hand  'em 
back  the  right  change.  There's  an  awful  lot  of  'en 


The  Unknown  Quantity  113 

buying  bread  all  the  time.  Funny  taste  they  have  —  I 
never  cared  for  bread  especially,  except  for  a  toasted 
cracker  with  the  Roquefort.  But  we  might  find  a  few 
of  'em  and  chuck  some  of  dad's  cash  back  where  it  came 
from.  I'd  feel  better  if  I  could.  It  seems  tough  for 
people  to  be  held  up  for  a  soggy  thing  like  bread.  One 
wouldn't  mind  standing  a  rise  in  broiled  lobsters  or  dev- 
iled crabs.  Get  to  work  and  think,  Ken.  I  want  to 
pay  back  all  of  that  money  I  can." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  charities,"  said  Kenwitz,  me- 
chanically. 

"  Easy  enough,"  said  Dan,  in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "  I 
suppose  I  could  give  the  city  a  park,  or  endow  an  aspara- 
gus bed  in  a  hospital.  But  I  don't  want  Paul  to  get 
away  with  .the  proceeds  of  the  gold  brick  we  sold  Peter. 
It's  the  bread  shorts  I  want  to  cover,  Ken." 

The  thin  fingers  of  Kenwitz  moved  rapidly. 

"  Do  you  know  how  much  money  it  would  take  to  pay 
back  the  losses  of  consumers  during  that  corner  in 
flour?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not,"  said  Dan,  stoutly.  '*  My  lawyer  tells  me 
that  I  have  two  millions." 

"  If  you  had  a  hundred  millions,"  said  Kenwitz,  vehe- 
mently, "  you  couldn't  repair  a  thousandth  part  of  the 
damage  that  has  been  done.  You  cannot  conceive  of 
the  accumulated  evils  produced  by  misapplied  wealth. 
Each  penny  that  was  wrung  from  the  lean  purses  of  the 
poor  reacted  a  thousandfold  to  their  harm.  You  do  not 


114  Strictly  Business 

understand.  You  do  not  see  how  hopeless  is  your  de- 
sire to  make  restitution.  Not  in  a  single  instance  can 
it  be  done. 

"  Back  up,  philosopher !  "  said  Dan.  "  The  penny 
has  no  sorrow  that  the  dollar  cannot  heal." 

"  Not  in  one  instance,"  repeated  Kenwitz.  "  I  will 
give  you  one,  and  let  us  see.  Thomas  Boyne  had  a  little 
bakery  over  there  in  Varick  Street.  He  sold  bread  to 
the  poorest  people.  When  the  price  of  flour  went  up 
he  had  to  raise  the  price  of  bread.  His  customer's  were 
too  poor  to  pay  it,  Boyne's  business  failed  and  he  lost 
his  $1,000  capital  —  all  he  had  in  the  world." 

Dan  Kinsolving  struck  the  park  bench  a  mighty  blow 
with  his  fist. 

"  I  accept  the  instance,"  he  cried.  "  Take  me  to 
Boyne.  I  will  repay  his  thousand  dollars  and  buy  him  a 
new  bakery." 

"  Write  your  check,"  said  Kenwitz,  without  moving, 
"  and  then  begin  to  write  checks  in  payment  of  the  train 
of  consequences.  Draw  the  next  one  for  $50,000. 
Boyne  went  insane  after  his  failure  and  set  fire  to  the 
building  from  which  he  was  about  to  be  evicted.  The 
loss  amounted  to  that  much.  Boyne  died  in  an  asylum." 

"  Stick  to  the  instance,"  said  Dan.  "  I  haven't  no- 
ticed any  insurance  companies  on  my  charity  list." 

"  Draw  your  next  check  for  $100,000,"  went  on  Ken- 
witz. "  Boyne's  son  fell  into  bad  ways  after  the  bakery 


The  Unknown  Quantity  115 

closed,  and  was  accused  of  murder.  He  was  acquitted 
last  week  after  a  three  years'  legal  battle,  and  the  state 
draws  upon  taxpayers  for  that  much  expense." 

"  Back  to  the  bakery !  "  exclaimed  Dan,  impatiently. 
"  The  Government  doesn't  need  to  stand  in  the  bread 
line." 

"  The  last  item  of  the  instance  is  —  come  and  I  will 
show  you,"  said  Kenwitz,  rising. 

The  Socialistic  watchmaker  was  happy.  He  was  a 
millionaire-baiter  by  nature  and  a  pessimist  by  trade. 
Kenwitz  would  assure  you  in  one  breath  that  money  was 
but  evil  and  corruption,  and  that  your  brand-new  watch 
needed  cleaning  and  a  new  ratchet-wheel. 

He  conducted  Kinsolving  southward  out  of  the  square 
and  into  ragged,  poverty-haunted  Varick  Street.  Up 
the  narrow  stairway  of  a  squalid  brick  tenement  he  led 
the  penitent  offspring  of  the  Octopus.  He  knocked  on 
a  door,  and  a  clear  voice  called  to  them  to  enter. 

In  that  almost  bare  room  a  young  woman  sat  sewing 
at  a  machine.  She  nodded  to  Kenwitz  as  to  a  familiar 
acquaintance.  One  little  stream  of  sunlight  through  the 
dingy  window  burnished  her  heavy  hair  to  the  dolor  of 
an  ancient  Tuscan's  shield.  She  flashed  a  rippling  smile 
at  Kenwitz  and  a  look  of  somewhat  flustered  inquiry. 

Kinsolving  stood  regarding  her  clear  and  pathetic 
beauty  in  heart-throbbing  silence.  Thus  they  came  into 
the  presence  of  the  last  item  of  the  Instance. 


116  Strictly  Business 

"  How  many  this  week,  Miss  Mary?  "  asked  the  watch- 
maker. A  mountain  of  coarse  gray  shirts  lay  upon  the 
floor. 

"  Nearly  thirty  dozen,"  said  the  young  woman  cheer- 
fully. "  I've  made  almost  $4.  I'm  improving,  Mr. 
Kenwitz.  I  hardly  know  what  to  do  with  so  much 
money."  Her  eyes  turned,  brightly  soft,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Dan.  A  little  pink  spot  came  out  on  her  round, 
pale  cheek. 

Kenwitz  chuckled  like  a  diabolic  raven. 

"  Miss  Boyne,"  he  said,  "  let  me  present  Mr.  Kinsolv- 
ing,  the  son  of  the  man  who  put  bread  up  five  years  ago. 
He  thinks  he  would  like  to  do  something  to  aid  those 
who  were  inconvenienced  by  that  act." 

The  smile  left  the  young  woman's  face.  She  rose  and 
pointed  her  forefinger  toward  the  door.  This  time  she 
looked  Kinsolving  straight  in  the  eye,  but  it  was  not  a 
look  that  gave  delight. 

The  two  men  went  down  into  Varick  Street.  Ken- 
witz, letting  all  his  pessimism  and  rancor  and  hatred  of 
the  Octopus  come  to  the  surface,  gibed  at  the  moneyed 
side  of  his  friend  in  an  acrid  torrent  of  words.  Dan  ap- 
peared to  be  listening,  and  then  turned  to  Kenwitz  and 
shook  hands  with  him  warmly. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you,  Ken,  old  man,"  he  said,  vaguely 
r — "  a  thousand  times  obliged." 

"  Mein.  Gott !  you  are  crazy  !  "  cried  the  watchmaker, 
(dropping  his  spectacles  for  the  first  time  in  years. 


The  Unknown  Quantity  11T 

Two  months  afterward  Kenwitz  went  into  a  large 
bakery  on  lower  Broadway  with  a  pair  of  gold-rimmed 
eyeglasses  that  he  had  mended  for  the  proprietor. 

A  lady  was  giving  an  order  to  a  clerk  as  Kenwitz 
passed  her. 

"  These  loaves  are  ten  cents,"  said  the  clerk. 

"  I  always  get  them  at  eight  cents  uptown,"  said  the 
lady.  "  You  need  not  fill  the  order.  I  will  drive  by 
there  on  my  way  home." 

The  voice  was  familiar.     The  watchmaker  paused. 

"  Mr.  Kenwitz !  w  cried  the  lady,  heartily.  "  How  do 
you  do?  " 

Kenwitz  was  trying  to  train  his  socialistic  and  eco- 
nomic comprehension  on  her  wonderful  fur  boa  and  the 
carriage  waiting  outside. 

"  Why,  Miss  Boyne !  "  he  began. 

"  Mrs.  Kinsolving,"  she  corrected.  "  D«a  and  I  were 
married  a  month  ago." 


XI 

THE  THING'S  THE  PLAY 

JjEING  acquainted  with  a  newspaper  reporter  who  had 
a  couple  of  free  passes,  I  got  to  see  the  performance  a 
few  nights  ago  at  one  of  the  popular  vaudeville  houses. 

One  of  the  numbers  was  a  violin  solo  by  a  striking- 
looking  man  not  much  past  forty,  but  with  very  gray 
thick  hair.  Not  being  afflicted  with  a  taste  for  music,  I 
let  the  system  of  noises  drift  past  my  ears  while  I  re- 
garded the  man. 

"  There  was  a  story  about  that  chap  a  month  or  two 
ago,"  said  the  reporter.  "  They  gave  me  the  assign- 
ment. It  was  to  run  a  column  and  was  to  be  on  the 
extremely  light  and  joking  order.  The  old  man  seems 
to  like  the  funny  touch  I  give  to  local  happenings.  Oh, 
yes,  I'm  working  on  a  farce  comedy  now.  Well,  I  went 
down  to  the  house  and  got  all  the  details ;  but  I  certainly 
fell  down  on  that  job.  I  went  back  and  turned  in  a 
comic  write-up  of  an  east  side  funeral  instead.  Why? 
Oh,  I  couldn't  seem  to  get  hold  of  it  with  my  funny 
hooks,  somehow.  Maybe  you  could  make  a  one-act 
tragedy  out  of  it  for  a  curtain-raiser.  I'll  give  you  the 

details." 

118 


The  Thing's  the  Play  119 

After  the  performance  my  friend,  the  reporter,  re- 
cited to  me  the  facts  over  the  Wiirzburger. 

"  I  see  no  reason,"  said  I,  when  he  had  concluded, 
"  why  that  shouldn't  make  a  rattling  good  funny  story. 
Those  three  people  couldn't  have  acted  in  a  more  absurd 
and  preposterous  manner  if  they  had  been  real  actors  in 
a  real  theatre.  I'm  really  afraid  that  all  the  stage  is  a 
world,  anyhow,  and  all  the  players  merely  men  and 
women.  (  The  thing's  the  play,'  is  the  way  I  quote  Mi*. 
Shakespeare." 

"  Try  it,"  said  the  reporter. 

"  I  will,"  said  I ;  and  I  did,  to  show  him  how  he  could 
have  made  a  humorous  column  of  it  for  his  paper. 

There  stands  a  house  near  Abingdon  Square.  On  the 
ground  floor-  there  has  been  for  twenty-five  years  a  little 
store  where  toys  and  notions  and  stationery  are  sold. 

One  night  twenty  years  ago  there  was  a  wedding  in  the 
rooms  above  the  store.  The  Widow  Mayo  owned  the 
house  and  store.  Her  daughter  Helen  was  married  to 
Frank  Barry.  John  Delaney  was  best  man.  Helen 
was  eighteen,  and  her  picture  had  been  printed  in  a 
morning  paper  next  to  the  headlines  of  a  "  Wholesale 
Female  Murderess  "  story  from  Butte,  Mont.  But  after 
your  eye  and  intelligence  had  rejected  the  connection, 
you  seized  your  magnifying  glass  and  read  beneath  the 
portrait  her  description  as  one  of  a  series  of  Prominent 
Beauties  and  Belles  of  the  lower  west  side. 

Frank  Barry  and  John  Delaney  were  "  prominent " 


120  Strictly  Business 

young  beaux  of  the  same  side,  and  bosom  friends,  whom 
you  expected  to  turn  upon  each  other  every  time  the 
curtain  went  up.  One  who  pays  his  money  for  orches- 
tra seats  and  fiction  expects  this.  That  is  the  first  funny 
idea  that  has  turned  up  in  the  story  yet.  Both  had 
made  a  great  race  for  Helen's  hand.  When  Frank  won, 
John  shook  his  hand  and  congratulated  him  —  honestly, 
he  did. 

After  the  ceremony  Helen  ran  upstairs  to  put  on  her 
hat.  She  was  getting  married  in  a  traveling  dress.  She 
and  Frank  were  going  to  Old  Point  Comfort  for  a  week. 
Downstairs  the  usual  horde  of  gibbering  cave-dwellers 
were  waiting  with  their  hands  full  of  old  Congress  gaiters 
and  paper  bags  of  hominy. 

Then  there  was  a  rattle  of  the  fire-escape,  and  into 
her  room  jumps  the  mad  and  infatuated  John  Delaney, 
with  a  damp  curl  drooping  upon  his  forehead,  and  made 
violent  and  reprehensible  love  to  his  lost  one,  entreating 
her  to  flee  or  fly  with  him  to  the  Riviera,  or  the  Bronx, 
or  any  old  place  where  there  are  Italian  skies  and  dolce 
•far  niente. 

It  would  have  carried  Blaney  off  his  feet  to  see  Helen 
repulse  him.  With  blazing  and  scornful  eyes  she  fairly 
withered  him  by  demanding  whatever  he  meant  by  speak- 
ing to  respectable  people  that' way. 

In  a  few  moments  she  had  him  going.  The  manliness 
that  had  possessed  him  departed.  He  bowed  low,  and 
said  something  about  "  irresistible  impulse  "  and  "  for- 


The  Thing's  the  "Play  121 

ever  carry  in  his  heart  the  memory  of  *%— .  and  she  sug- 
gested that  he  catch  the  first  fire-escape  going  down. 

"  I  will  away,"  said  John  Delaney,  "  to  the  further- 
most parts  of  the  earth.  I  cannot  remain  near  you  and 
know  that  you  are  another's.  I  will  to  Africa,  and  there 
amid  other  scenes  strive  to  for  • — n 

"  For  goodness  sake,  get  out,"  said  Helen.  "  Some- 
body might  come  in." 

He  knelt  upon  one  knee,  and  she  extended  him  one 
white  hand  that  he  might  give  it  a  farewell  kiss. 

Girls,  was  this  choice  boon  of  the  great  little  god  Cupid 
ever  vouchsafed  you  —  to  have  the  fellow  you  want  hard 
and  fast,  and  have  the  one  you  don't  want  come  with  a 
damp  curl  on  his  forehead  and  kneel  to  you  and  babble 
of  Africa. and  love  which,  in  spite  of  everything,  shall 
forever  bloom,  an  amaranth,  in  his  heart?  To  know 
your  power,  and  to  feel  the  sweet  security  of  your  own 
happy  state;  to  send  the  unlucky  one,  broken-hearted, 
to  foreign  climes,  while  you  congratulate  yourself  as  he 
presses  his  last  kiss  upon  your  knuckles,  that  your  nails 
are  well  manicured  —  say,  girls,  it's  galluptious  —  don't 
ever  let  it  get  by  you. 

And  then,  of  course- — how  did  you  guess  it?  —  the 
door  opened  and  in  stalked  the  bridegroom,  jealous  of 
slow-tying  bonnet  strings. 

The  farewell  kiss  was  imprinted  upon  Helen's  hand, 
and  out  of  the  window  and  down  the  fire-e«c*pc  sprang 
John  Delaney,  Africa  bound. 


122  Strictly  Business 

A  little  slow  music,  if  you  please  —  faint  violin,  just 
a  breath  in  the  clarinet  and  a  touch  of  the  'cello.  Im- 
agine the  scene.  Frank,  white-hot,  with  the  cry  of  a 
man  wounded  to  death  bursting  from  him.  Helen, 
rushing  and  clinging  to  him,  trying  to  explain.  He 
catches  her  wrists  and  tears  them  from  his  shoulders  — 
once,  twice,  thrice  he  sways  her  this  way  and  that  —  the 
stage  manager  will  show  you  how  —  and  throws  her 
from  him  to  the  floor  a  huddled,  crushed,  moaning  thing. 
Never,  he  cries,  will  he  look  upon  her  face  again,  and 
rushes  from  the  house  through  the  staring  groups  of  as- 
tonished guests. 

And,  now,  because  it  is  the  Thing  instead  of  the  Play, 
the  audience  must  stroll  out  into  the  real  lobby  of  the 
world  and  marry,  die,  grow  gray,  rich,  poor,  happy  or 
sad  during  the  intermission  of  twenty  years  which  must 
precede  the  rising  of  the  curtain  again. 

Mrs.  Barry  inherited  the  shop  and  the  house.  At 
thirty-eight  she  could  have  bested  many  an  eighteen- 
year-old  at  a  beauty  show  on  points  and  general  results. 
Only  a  few  people  remembered  her  wedding  comedy,  but 
she  made  of  it  no  secret.  She  did  not  pack  it  in  lav- 
ender or  moth  balls,  nor  did  she  sell  it  to  a  magazine. 

One  day  a  middle-aged,  money-making  lawyer,  who 
bought  his  legal  cap  and  ink  of  her,  asked  her  across 
the  counter  to  marry  him. 

"I'm  really  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Helen,  cheer- 
fully, "but  I  married  another  man  twenty  years  ago. 


'The  Thing's  the  Play  123 

He  was  more  a  goose  than  a  man,  but  I  think  I  love  him 
yet.  I  have  never  seen  him  since  about  half  an  hour 
after  the  ceremony.  Was  it  copying  ink  that  you 
wanted  or  j  ust  writing  fluid  ?  " 

The  lawyer  bowed  over  the  counter  with  old-time 
grace  and  left  a  respectful  kiss  on  the  back  of  her  hand. 
Helen  sighed.  Parting  salutes,  however  romantic,  may 
be  overdone.  Here  she  was  at  thirty-eight,  beautiful 
and  admired;  and  all  that  she  seemed  to  have  got  from 
her  lovers  were  reproaches  and  adieus.  Worse  still,  in 
the  last  one  she  had  lost  a  customer,  too. 

Business  languished,  and  she  hung  out  a  Room  to  Let 
card.  Two  large  rooms  on  the  third  floor  were  pre- 
pared for  desirable  tenants.  Roomers  came,  and  went 
regretfully,  for  the  house  of  Mrs.  Barry  was  the  abode 
of  neatness,  comfort  and  taste. 

One  day  came  Ramonti,  the  violinist,  and  engaged  the 
front  room  above.  The  discord  and  clatter  uptown  of- 
fended his  nice  ear;  so  a  friend  had  sent  him  to  this 
oasis  in  the  desert  of  noise. 

Ramonti,  with  his  still  youthful  face,  his  dark  eye- 
brows, his  short,  pointed,  foreign,  brown  beard,  his  dis- 
tinguished head  of  gray  hair,  and  his  artist's  tempera- 
ment —  revealed  in  his  light,  gay  and  sympathetic 
manner  —  was  a  welcome  tenant  in  the  old  house  near 
Abingdon  Square. 

Helen  lived  on  the  floor  above  the  store.  The  archi- 
tecture of  it  was  singular  and  quaint.  The  hall  was 


124  Strictly  Business 

large  and  almost  square.  Up  one  side  of  it,  and  then 
across  the  end  of  it  ascended  an  open  stairway  to  the 
floor  above.  This  hall  space  she  had  furnished  as  a 
sitting  room  and  office  combined.  There  she  kept  her 
desk  and  wrote  her  business  letters ;  and  there  she  sat 
of  evenings  by  a  warm  fire  and  a  bright  red  light  and 
sewed  or  read.  Ramonti  found  the  atmosphere  so  agree- 
able that  he  spent  much  time  there,  describing  to  Mrs. 
Barry  the  wonders  of  Paris,  where  he  had  studied  with 
a  particularly  notorious  and  noisy  fiddler. 

Next  comes  lodger  No.  2,  a  handsome,  melancholy 
man  in  the  early  40's,  with  a  brown,  mysterious  beard, 
and  strangely  pleading,  haunting  eyes.  He,  too,  found 
the  society  of  Helen  a  desirable  thing.  With  the  eyes 
of  Romeo  and  Othello's  tongue,  he  charmed  her  with 
tales  of  distant  climes  and  wooed  her  by  respectful 
innuendo. 

From  the  first  Helen  felt  a  marvelous  and  compelling 
thrill  in  the  presence  of  this  man.  His  voice  somehow 
took  her  swiftly  back  to  the  days  of  her  youth's  ro- 
mance. This  feeling  grew,  and  she  gave  way  to  it,  and 
it  led  her  to  an  instinctive  belief  that  he  had  been  a 
factor  in  that  romance.  And  then  with  a  woman's  rea- 
soning (oh,  yes,  they  do,  sometimes)  she  leaped  over 
common  syllogisms  and  theory,  and  logic,  and  was  sure 
that  her  husband  had  come  back  to  her.  For  she  saw 
in  his  eyes  love,  which  no  woman  can  mistake,  and  a 
thousand  tons  of  regret  and  remorse,  which  aroused  pity, 


The  Thing's  the  Play  125 

which  is  perilously  near  to  love  requited,  which  is  the 
sine  qua  non  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

But  she  made  no  sign.  A  husband  who  steps  around 
the  corner  for  twenty  years  and  then  drops  in  again 
should  not  expect  to  find  his  slippers  laid  out  too  con- 
veniently near  nor  a  match  ready  lighted  for  his  cigar. 
There  must  be  expiation,  explanation,  and  possibly  exe- 
cration. A  little  purgatory,  and  then,  maybe,  if  he 
were  properly  humble,  he  might  be  trusted  with  a  harp 
and  crown.  And  so  she  made  no  sign  that  she  knew  or 
suspected. 

And  my  friend,  the  reporter,  could  see  nothing  funny 
in  this !  Sent  out  on  an  assignment  to  write  up  a  roar- 
ing, hilarious,  brilliant  joshing  story  of  —  but  I  will 
not  knock  a  brother  —  let  us  go  on  with  the  story. 

One  evening  Ramonti  stopped  in  Helen's  hall-office- 
reception-room  and  told  his  love  with  the  tenderness  and 
ardor  of  the  enraptured  artist.  His  words  were  a  bright 
flame  of  the  divine  fire  that  glows  in  the  heart  of  a  man 
who  is  a  dreamer  and  a  doer  combined. 

"  But  before  you  give  me  an  answer,"  he  went  on,  be- 
fore she  could  accuse  him  of  suddenness,  "  I  must  tell 
you  that  *  Ramonti '  is  the  only  name  I  have  to  offer 
you.  My  manager  gave  me  that.  I  do  not  know  wh« 
I  am  or  where  I  came  from.  My  first  recollection  is  of 
opening  my  eyes  in  a  hospital.  I  was  a  young  man,  and 
I  had  been  there  for  weeks.  My  life  before  that  is  a 
blank  to  me.  They  told  me  that  I  was  found  lying  in 


126  Strictly  Business 

the  street  with  a  wound  on  my  head  and  was  brought 
there  in  an  ambulance.  They  thought  I  must  have  fal- 
len and  struck  my  head  upon  the  stones.  There  was 
nothing  to  show  who  I  was.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
remember.  After  I  was  discharged  from  the  hospital, 
I  took  up  the  violin.  I  have  had  success.  Mrs.  Barry 
—  I  do  not  know  your  name  except  that  —  I  love  you; 
the  first  time  I  saw  you  I  realized  that  you  were  the  one 
woman  in  the  world  for  me  —  and"  —  oh,  a  lot  of  stuff 
like  that. 

Helen  felt  young  again.  First  a  wave  of  pride  and 
a  sweet  little  thrill  of  vanity  went  all  over  her ;  and  then 
she  looked  Ramonti  in  the  eyes,  and  a  tremendous  throb 
went  through  her  heart.  She  hadn't  expected  that 
throb.  It  took  her  by  surprise.  The  musician  had 
become  a  big  factor  in  her  life,  and  she  hadn't  been 
aware  of  it. 

"Mr.  Ramonti,"  she  said  sorrowfully  (this  was  not 
on  the  stage,  remember;  it  was  in  the  old  home  near 
Abingdon  Square),  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I'm  a  mar- 
ried woman." 

And  then  she  told  him  the  sad  story  of  her  life,  as  a 
heroine  must  do,  sooner  or  later,  either  to  a  theatrical 
manager  or  to  a  reporter. 

Ramonti  took  her  hand,  bowed  low  and  kissed  it,  and 
went  up  to  his  room. 

Helen  sat  down  and  looked  mournfully  at  her  hand 


The  Thing's  the  Play  127 

Well  she  might.  Three  suitors  had  kissed  it,  mounted 
their  red  roan  steeds  and  ridden  away. 

In  an  hour  entered  the  mysterious  stranger  with  the 
haunting  eyes.  Helen  was  in  the  willow  rocker,  knit- 
ting a  useless  thing  in  cotton-wool.  He  ricocheted 
from  the  stairs  and  stopped  for  a  chat.  Sitting  across 
the  table  from  her,  he  also  poured  out  his  narrative  of 
love.  And  then  he  said :  "  Helen,  do  you  not  remem- 
ber me?  I  think  I  have  seen  it  in  your  eyes.  Can  you 
forgive  the  past  and  remember  the  love  that  has  lasted 
for  twenty  years  ?  I  wronged  you  deeply  —  I  was 
afraid  to  come  back  to  you  —  but  my  love  overpowered 
my  reason.  Can  you,  will  you,  forgive  me?  " 

Helen  stood  up.  The  mysterious  stranger  held  on< 
of  her  hands  in  a  strong  and  trembling  clasp. 

There  she  stood,  and  I  pity  the  stage  that  it  has  not 
acquired  a  scene  like  that  and  her  emotions  to  portray. 

For  she  stood  with  a  divided  heart.  The  fresh,  un- 
forgettable, virginal  love  for  her  bridegroom  was  hers ; 
the  treasured,  sacred,  honored  memory  of  her  first  choice 
filled  half  her  soul.  She  leaned  to  that  pure  feeling. 
Honor  and  faith  and  sweet,  abiding  romance  bpund  her 
to  it.  But  the  other  half  of  her  heart  and  soul  was 
filled  with  something  else  —  a  later,  fuller,  nearer  in- 
fluence. And  so  the  old  fought  against  the  new. 

And  while  she  hesitated,  from  the  room  above  came 
the  soft,  racking,  petitionary  music  of  a  violin.  The 


128  Strictly  Business 

hag,  music,  bewitches  some  of  the  noblest.  The  daws 
may  peck  upon  one's  sleeve  without  injury,  but  who- 
ever wears  his  heart  upon  his  tympanum  gets  it  not 
far  from  the  neck. 

This  music  and  the  musician  called  her,  and  at  her 
side  honor  and  the  old  love  held  her  back. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  pleaded. 

"  Twenty  years  is  a  long  time  to  remain  away  from 
the  one  you  say  you  love,"  she  declared,  with  a  purga- 
torial touch. 

"How  could  I  tell?"  he  begged.  "I  will  conceal 
nothing  from  you.  That  night  when  he  left  I  followed 
him.  I  was  mad  with  jealousy.  On  a  dark  street  I 
struck  him  down.  He  did  not  rise.  I  examined  him. 
His  head  had  struck  a  stone.  I  did  not  intend  to  kill 
him.  I  was  mad  with  love  and  jealousy.  I  hid  near 
by  and  saw  an  ambulance  take  him  away.  Although 
you  married  him,  Helen  — " 

"  Who  Are  You?  "  cried  the  woman,  with  wide-opea 
eyes,  snatching  her  hand  away. 

"  Don't  you  remember  me,  Helen  - —  the  one  who  has 
always  loved  you  the  best?  I  am  John  Delaney.  If 
you  can  forgive — " 

But  she  was  gone,  leaping,  stumbling,  hurrying,  fly- 
ing up  the  stairs  toward  the  music  and  him  who  had 
forgotten,  but  who  had  known  her  for  his  in  each  of 
his  two  existences,  and  as  she  climbed  up  she  sobbed, 
cried  and  sang :  "  Frank !  Frank !  Frank !  " 


The  Thing's  the  Play  129 

Three  mortals  thus  juggling  with  years  as  though 
they  were  billiard  balls,  and  my  friend,  the  reporter, 
couldn't  see  anything  funny  in  it ! 


XII 
A  RAMBLE  IN  APHASIA 

MY  wife  and  I  parted  on  that  morning  in  precisely  our 
usual  manner.  She  left  her  second  cup  of  tea  to  follow 
me  to  the  front  door.  There  she  plucked  from  my  lapel 
the  invisible  strand  of  lint  (the  universal  act  of  woman 
to  proclaim  ownership)  and  bade  me  take  care  of  my 
cold.  I  had  no  cold.  Next  came  her  kiss  of  parting 
—  the  level  kiss  of  domesticity  flavored  with  Young 
Hyson.  There  was  no  fear  of  the  extemporaneous,  of 
variety  spicing  her  infinite  custom.  With  the  deft 
touch  of  long  malpractice,  she  dabbed  awry  my  well-set 
scarf  pin;  and  then,  as  I  closed  the  door,  I  heard  her 
morning  slippers  pattering  back  to  her  cooling  tea. 

When  I  set  out  I  had  no  thought  or  premonition  of 
what  was  to  occur.  The  attack  came  suddenly. 

For  many  weeks  I  had  been  toiling,  almost  night  and 
day,  at  a  famous  railroad  law  case  that  I  won  tri- 
umphantly but  a  few  days  previously.  In  fact,  I  had 
been  digging  away  at  the  law  almost  without  cessation 
for  many  years.  Once  or  twice  good  Doctor  Volney, 
my  friend  and  physician,  had  warned  me. 

"  If  you  don't  slacken  up,  Bellford,"  he  said,  "  you'll 

130 


A  Ramble  in  Aphasia  131 

go  suddenly  to  pieces.  Either  your  nerves  or  your 
brain  will  give  way.  Tell  me,  does  a  week  pass  in  which 
you  do  not  read  in  the  papers  of  a  case  of  aphasia  —  of 
some  man  lost,  wandering  nameless,  with  his  past  and 
his  identity  blotted  out  —  and  all  from  that  little  brain 
clot  made  by  overwork  or  worry  ?  " 

"  I  always  thought,"  said  I,  "  that  the  clot  in  those 
instances  was  really  to  be  found  on  the  brains  of  the 
newspaper  reporters." 

Doctor  Volney  shook  his  head. 

"  The  disease  exists,"  he  said.  "  You  need  a  change 
or  a  rest.  Court-room,  office  and  home  —  there  is  the 
only  route  you  travel.  For  recreation  you  —  read  law 
T>ooks.  Better  take  warning  in  time." 

"  On  Thursday  nights,"  I  said,  defensively,  "  my 
wife  and  I  play  cribbage.  On  Sundays  she  reads  to  me 
the  weekly  letter  from  her  mother.  That  law  books  are 
not  a  recreation  remains  yet  to  be  established." 

That  morning  as  I  walked  I  was  thinking  of  Doctor 
Volney's  words.  I  was  feeling  as  well  as  I  usually  did 
>• —  possibly  in  better  spirits  than  usual. 

I  woke  with  stiff  and  cramped  muscles  from  having 
slept  long  on  the  incommodious  seat  of  a  day  coach. 
I  leaned  my  head  against  the  seat  and  tried  to  think. 
After  a  long  time  I  said  to  myself :  "  I  must  have  a 
name  of  some  sort."  I  searched  my  pockets.  Not  a 
card;  not  a  letter;  not  a  paper  or  monogram  could  I 


132  Strictly  Business 

find.  But  I  found  in  my  coat  pocket  nearly  $3,000  in 
bills  of  large  denomination.  "  I  must  be  some  one,  of 
course,"  I  repeated  to  myself,  and  began  again  to 
consider. 

The  car  was  well  crowded  with  men,  among  whom,  I 
told  myself,  there  must  have  been  some  common  interest, 
for  they  intermingled  freely,  and  seemed  in  the  best 
good  humor  and  spirits.  One  of  them  —  a  stout, 
spectacled  gentleman  enveloped  in  a  decided  odor  of 
cinnamon  and  aloes  —  took  the  vacant  half  of  my  seat 
with  a  friendly  nod,  and  unfolded  a  newspaper.  In  the 
intervals  between  his  periods  of  reading,  we  conversed, 
as  travelers  will,  on  current  affairs.  I  found  myself 
able  to  sustain  the  conversation  on  such  subjects  with 
credit,  at  least  to  my  memory.  By  and  by  my  com- 
panion said: 

"  You  are  one  of  us,  of  course.  Fine  lot  of  men  the 
West  sends  in  this  time.  I'm  glad  they  held  the  con- 
vention in  New  York ;  I've  never  been  East  before.  My 
name's  R.  P.  Bolder  —  Bolder  &  Son,  of  Hickory 
Grove,  Missouri." 

Though  unprepared,  I  rose  to  the  emergency,  as  men 
will  when  put  to  it.  Now  must  I  hold  a  christening, 
and  be  at  once  babe,  parson  and  parent.  My  senses 
came  to  the  rescue  of  my  slower  brain.  The  insistent 
odor  of  drugs  from  my  companion  supplied  one  idea;  a 
glance  at  his  newspaper,  where  my  eye  met  a  conspicu- 
ous advertisement,  assisted  me  furthet. 


A  Ramble  in  Aphasia  133 

"  My  name,"  said  I,  glibly,  "  is  Edward  Pinkhammer. 
I  am  a  druggist,  and  my  home  is  in  Cornopolis,  Kansas." 

"  I  knew  you  were  a  druggist,"  said  my  fellow 
traveler,  affably.  "  I  saw  the  callous  spot  on  your 
right  forefinger  where  the  handle  of  the  pestle  rubs.  Of 
course,  you  are  a  delegate  to  our  National  Convention." 

"  Are  all  these  men  druggists  ? "  I  asked,  won- 
deringly. 

"  They  are.  This  car  came  through  from  the  West. 
And  they're  your  old-time  druggists,  too  —  none  of 
your  patent  tablet-and-granule  pharmashootists  that  use 
slot  machines  instead  of  a  prescription  desk.  We 
percolate  our  own  paregoric  and  roll  our  own  pills,  and 
we  ain't  above  handling  a  few  garden  seeds  in  the 
spring,  and  carrying  a  side  line  of  confectionery  and 
shoes.  I  tell  you  Hampinker,  I've  got  an  idea  to  spring 
on  this  convention  —  new  ideas  is  what  they  want. 
Now,  you  know  the  shelf  bottles  of  tartar  emetic  and 
Rochelle  salt  Ant.  et  Pot.  Tart,  and  Sod.  et  Pot.  Tart. 
— —  one's  poison,  you  know,  and  the  other's  harmless. 
It's  easy  to  mistake  one  label  for  the  other.  Where  do 
druggists  mostly  keep  'em?  Why,  as  far  apart  as  pos- 
sible, on  different  shelves.  That's  wrong.  I  say  keep 
'em  side  by  side,  so  when  you  want  one  you  can  always 
compare  it  with  the  other  and  avoid  mistakes.  Do  you 
catch  the  idea  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  very  good  one,"  I  said. 

"All  right!     When   I  spring  it  on   the  convention 


134  Strictly  'Business 

you  back  it  up.  We'll  make  some  of  these  Eastern 
orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream  professors  that 
think  they're  the  only  lozenges  in  the  market  look  like 
hypodermic  tablets." 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  aid,"  I  said,  warming,  "  the  two 
bottles  of  —  er  — " 

"  Tartrate  of  antimony  and  potash,  and  tartrate  of 
soda  and  potash." 

"  Shall  henceforth  sit  side  by  side,"  I  concluded, 
firmly. 

"  Now,  there's  another  thing,"  said  Mr.  Bolder. 
u  For  an  excipient  in  manipulating  a  pill  mass  which  do 
you  prefer  —  the  magnesia  carbonate  or  the  pulverized 
glycerrhiza  radix?  " 

"  The  —  er  —  magnesia,"  I  said.  It  was  easier  to 
say  than  the  other  word. 

Mr.  Bolder  glanced  at  me  distrustfully  through  hi$ 
spectacles. 

"  Give  me  the  glycerrhiza,"  said  he.  "  Magnesia 
cakes." 

"  Here's  another  one  of  these  fake  aphasia  cases,"  he 
said,  presently,  handing  me  his  newspaper,  and  laying 
his  finger  upon  an  article.  "  I  don't  believe  in  'em.  I 
put  nine  out  of  ten  of  'em  down  as  frauds.  A  man  gets 
sick  of  his  business  and  his  folks  and  wants  to  have  a 
good  time.  He  skips  out  somewhere,  and  when  they 
find  him  he  pretends  to  have  lost  his  memory  —  don't 


A  Ramble  in  'Aphasia  135 

know  his  own  name,  and  won't  even  recognize  the  straw- 
berry mark  on  his  wife's  left  shoulder.  Aphasia! 
fTut!  Why  can't  they  stay  at  home  and  forget?  " 

I  took  the  paper  and  read,  after  the  pungent  head- 
lines, the  following: 

"  DENVER,  June  12. —  Elwyn  C.  Bellford,  a  prominent 
lawyer,  is  mysteriously  missing  from  his  home  since  three 
days  ago,  and  all  efforts  to  locate  him  have  been  in  vain. 
Mr.  Bellford  is  a  well-known  citizen  of  the  highest  stand- 
ing, and  has  enjoyed  a  large  and  lucrative  law  practice. 
He  is  married  and  owns  a  fine  home  and  the  most  extensive 
private  library  in  the  State.  On  the  day  of  his  disappear- 
ance, he  drew  quite  a  large  sum  of  money  from  his  bank. 
No  one  can  be  found  who  saw  him  after  he  left  the  bank. 
Mr.  Bellford  was  a  man  of  singularly  quiet  and  domestic 
tastes,  and  seemed  to  find  his  happiness  in  his  home  and 
profession.  If  any  clue  at  all  exists  to  his  strange  disap- 
pearance, it  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that  for  some  months 
he  has  been  deeply  absorbed  in  an  important  law  case  in 
connection  with  the  Q.  Y.  and  Z.  Railroad  Company.  It 
is  feared  that  overwork  may  have  affected  his  mind.  E very- 
effort  is  being  made  to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  the 
missing  man." 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  not  altogether  uncynical, 
Mr.  Bolder,"  I  said,  after  I  had  read  the  despatch. 
"  This  has  the  sound,  to  me,  of  a  genuine  case.  Why 
should  this  man,  prosperous,  happily  married  and  re- 
spected, choose  suddenly  to  abandon  everything?  I 


136  Strictly  Business 

know  that  these  lapses  of  memory  do  occur,  and  that 
men  do  find  themselves  adrift  without  &  name,  a  history 
or  a  home." 

"Oh,  gammon  and  jalap!"  said  Mr.  Bolder.  "It's 
larks  they're  after.  There's  too  much  education  nowa- 
days. Men  know  about  aphasia,  and  they  use  it  for 
an  excuse.  The  women  are  wise,  too.  When  it's  all 
over  they  look  you  in  the  eye,  as  scientific  as  you  please, 
and  say :  *  He  hypnotized  me.' ' 

Thus  Mr.  Bolder  diverted,  but  did  not  aid,  me  with 
his  comments  and  philosophy. 

We  arrived  in  New  York  about  ten  at  night.  I 
rode  in  a  cab  to  a  hotel,  and  I  wrote  my  name  "  Edward 
Pinkhammer  "  in  the  register.  As  I  did  so  I  felt  per- 
vade me  a  splendid,  wild,  intoxicating  buoyancy  —  a 
sense  of  unlimited  freedom,  of  newly  attained  possibili- 
ties. I  was  just  born  into  the  world.  The  old  fetters 
f —  whatever  they  had  been  —  were  stricken  from  my 
hands  and  feet.  The  future  lay  before  me  a  clear  road 
such  as  an  infant  enters,  and  I  could  set  out  upon  it 
equipped  with  a  man's  learning  and  experience. 

I  thought  the  hotel  clerk  looked  at  me  five  seconds 
too  long.  I  had  no  baggage. 

"  The  Druggists'  Convention,"  I  said.  "  My  trunk 
has  somehow  failed  to  arrive."  I  drew  out  a  roll  of 
money. 

"  Ah ! "  said  he,  showing  an  auriferous  tooth,  "  we 


A  Ramble  in  Aphasia  137 

have  quite  a  number  of  the  Western  delegates  stopping 
here."  He  struck  a  bell  for  the  boy. 

I  endeavored  to  give  color  to  my  role. 

"  There  is  an  important  movement  on  foot  among  us 
Westerners,"  I  said,  "  in  regard  to  a  recommendation 
to  the  convention  that  the  bottles  containing  the  tartrate 
of  antimony  and  potash,  and  the  tartrate  of  sodium 
and  potash  be  kept  in  a  contiguous  position  on  the 
shelf." 

"  Gentleman  to  three-fourteen,"  said  the  clerk, 
hastily.  I  was  whisked  away  to  my  room. 

The  next  day  I  bought  a  trunk  and  clothing,  and  be- 
gan to  live  the  life  of  Edward  Pinkhammer.  I  did  not 
tax  my  brain  with  endeavors  to  solve  problems  of  the 
past. 

It  was  a  piquant  and  sparkling  cup  that  the  great 
island  city  held  up  to  my  lips.  I  drank  of  it  gratefully. 
The  keys  of  Manhattan  belong  to  him  who  is  able  to 
bear  them.  You  must  be  either  the  city's  guest  or  its 
victim. 

The  following  few  days  were  as  gold  and  silver. 
Edward  Pinkhammer,  yet  counting  back  to  his  birth  by 
hours  only,  knew  the  rare  joy  of  having  come  upon  so 
diverting  a  world  full-fledged  and  unrestrained.  I  sat 
entranced  on  the  magic  carpets  provided  in  theatres  and 
roof-gardens,  that  transported  one  into  strange  and 
delightful  lands  full  of  frolicsome  music,  pretty  girls 


138  Strictly  Business 

and  grotesque,  drolly  extravagant  parodies  upon  human 
kind.  I  went  here  and  there  at  my  own  dear  will,  bound 
by  no  limits  of  space,  time  or  comportment.  I  dined  in 
weird  cabarets,  at  weirder  tables  d'hote  to  the  sound  of 
Hungarian  music  and  the  wild  shouts  of  mercurial  artists 
and  sculptors.  Or,  again,  where  the  night  life  quivers 
in  the  electric  glare  like  a  kinetoscopic  picture,  and  the 
millinery  of  the  world,  and  its  jewels,  and  the  ones  whom 
they  adorn,  and  the  men  who  make  all  three  possible  are 
met  for  good  cheer  and  the  spectacular  effect.  And 
among  all  these  scenes  that  I  have  mentioned  I  learned 
one  thing  that  I  never  knew  before.  And  that  is  that 
the  key  to  liberty  is  not  in  the  hands  of  License,  but 
Convention  holds  it.  Comity  has  a  toll-gate  at  which 
you  must  pay,  or  you  may  not  enter  the  land  of  Free- 
dom. In  all  the  glitter,  the  seeming  disorder,  the 
parade,  the  abandon,  I  saw  this  law,  unobtrusive,  yet 
like  iron,  prevail.  Therefore,  in  Manhattan  you  must 
obey  these  unwritten  laws,  and  then  you  will  be  freest 
of  the  free.  If  you  decline  to  be  bound  by  them,  you 
put  on  shackles. 

Sometimes,  as  my  mood  urged  me,  I  would  seek  the 
stately,  softly  murmuring  palm  rooms,  redolent  with 
high-born  life  and  delicate  restraint,  in  which  to  dine. 
Again  I  would  go  down  to  the  waterways  in  steamers 
packed  with  vociferous,  bedecked,  unchecked  love-mak- 
ing clerks  and  shop-girls  to  their  crude  pleasures  on  the 
island  shores.  And  there  was  always  Broadway  — 


A  Ramble  in  Aphasia  139 

glistening,  opulent,  wily,  varying,  desirable  Broadway 
—  growing  upon  one  like  an  opium  habit. 

One  afternoon  as  I  entered  my  hotel  a  stout  man  with 
a  big  nose  and  a  black  mustache  blocked  my  way  in  the 
corridor.  When  I  would  have  passed  around  him,  he 
greeted  me  with  offensive  familiarity. 

"Hallo,  Bellford!"  he  cried,  loudly.  "What  the 
deuce  are  you  doing  in  New  York?  Didn't  know  any- 
thing could  drag  you  away  from  that  old  book  den  of 
yours.  Is  Mrs.  B.  along  or  is  this  a  little  business  run 
alone,  eh?  " 

"  You  have  made  a  mistake,  sir,"  I  said,  coldly,  re- 
leasing my  hand  from  his  grasp.  "  My  name  is  Pink- 
hammer.  You  will  excuse  me." 

The  man  dropped  to  one  side,  apparently  astonished. 
As  I  walked  to  the  clerk's  desk  I  heard  him  call  to  a  bell 
boy  and  say  something  about  telegraph  blanks. 

"  You  will  give  me  my  bill,"  I  said  to  the  clerk,  "  and 
have  my  baggage  brought  down  in  half  an  hour.  I  do 
not  care  to  remain  where  I  am  annoyed  by  confidence 
men." 

I  moved  that  afternoon  to  another  hotel,  a  sedate, 
old-fashioned  one  on  lower  Fifth  Avenue. 

There  was  a  restaurant  a  little  way  off  Broadway 
where  one  could  be  served  almost  al  fresco  in  a  tropic 
array  of  screening  flora.  Quiet  and  luxury  and  a  per- 
fect service  made  it  an  ideal  place  in  which  to  take 
Juncheon  or  refreshment.  One  afternoon  I  was  there 


140  Strictly  Business 

picking  my  way  to  a  table  among  the  ferns  when  I  felt 
my  sleeve  caught. 

"  Mr.  Bellford ! "  exclaimed  an  amazingly  sweet 
voice. 

I  turned  quickly  to  see  a  lady  seated  alone  —  a  lady 
of  about  thirty,  with  exceedingly  handsome  eyes,  who 
looked  at  me  as  though  I  had  been  her  very  dear 
friend. 

"  You  were  about  to  pass  me,"  she  said,  accusingly. 
"  Don't  tell  me  you  did  not  know  me.  Why  should  we 
not  shake  hands  —  at  least  once  in  fifteen  years  ?  " 

I  shook  hands  with  her  at  once.  I  took  a  chair  op- 
posite her  at  the  table.  I  summoned  with  my  eyebrows 
a  hovering  waiter.  The  lady  was  philandering  with  an 
orange  ice.  I  ordered  a  creme  de  mentlie.  Her  hair 
was  reddish  bronze.  You  could  not  look  at  it,  because 
you  could  not  look  away  from  her  eyes.  But  you  were 
conscious  of  it  as  you  are  conscious  of  sunset  while  you 
look  into  the  profundities  of  a  wood  at  twilight. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  I  was  never  sure  of  that." 

"  What  would  you  think,"  I  said,  a  little  anxiously, 
"  if  I  were  to  tell  you  that  my  name  is  Edward  Pink- 
hammer,  from  Cornopolis,  Kansas?" 

"  What  would  I  think  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  a  merry 
glance.  **  Why,  that  you  had  not  brought  Mrs.  Bell- 
ford  to  New  York  with  you,  of  course.  I  do  wish  you 
had.  I  would  have  liked  to  see  Marian."  Her  voice 


A  Ramble  in  Aphasia  141 

lowered  slightly  — "  You  haven't  changed  much, 
Elwyn." 

I  felt  her  wonderful  eyes  searching  mine  and  my  face 
more  closely. 

"  Yes,  you  have,"  she  amended,  and  there  was  a  soft, 
exultant  note  in  her  latest  tones ;  "  I  see  it  now.  You 
haven't  forgotten.  You  haven't  forgotten  for  a  year  or 
a  day  or  an  hour.  I  told  you  you  never  could." 

I  poked  my  straw  anxiously  in  the  creme  de  menthe. 

"  I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said,  a  little  uneasy 
at  her  gaze.  "  But  that  is  just  the  trouble.  I  have 
forgotten.  I've  forgotten  everything." 

She  flouted  my  denial.  She  laughed  deliciously  at 
something  she  seemed  to  see  in  my  face. 

"  I've  heard  of  you  at  times,"  she  went  on.  "  You're 
quite  a  big  lawyer  out  West  —  Denver,  isn't  it,  or  Los 
Angeles?  Marian  must  be  very  proud  of  you.  You 
knew,  I  suppose,  that  I  married  six  months  after  you 
did.  You  may  have  seen  it  in  the  papers.  The  flowers 
alone  cost  two  thousand  dollars." 

She  had  mentioned  fifteen  years.  Fifteen  years  is  a 
long  time. 

"  Would  it  be  too  late,"  I  asked,  somewhat  timor- 
ously, "  to  offer  you  congratulations  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  dare  do  it,"  she  answered,  with  such  fine 
intrepidity  that  I  was  silent,  and  began  to  crease  pat- 
terns  on  the  cloth  with  my  thumb  nail. 

"  Tell  me  one  thing,"  she  said,  leaning  toward  me 


142  Strictly  Business 

rather  eagerly  — "  a  thing  I  have  wanted  to  know  for 
many  years  —  just  from  a  woman's  curiosity,  of  course 
•• —  have  you  ever  dared  since  that  night  to  touch,  smell 
or  look  at  white  roses  —  at  white  roses  wet  with  rain  and 
dew?" 

I  took  a  sip  of  creme  de  menthe. 

"  It  would.be  useless,  I  suppose,"  I  said,  with  a  sigh, 
"  for  me  to  repeat  that  I  have  no  recollection  at  all 
about  these  things.  My  memory  is  completely  at  fault. 
I  need  not  say  how  much  I  regret  it." 

The  lady  rested  her  arms  upon  the  table,  and  again 
her  eyes  disdained  my  words  and  went  traveling  by  their 
own  route  direct  to  my  soul.  She  laughed  softly,  with 
a  strange  quality  in  the  sound  —  it  was  a  laugh  of  hap- 
piness —  yes,  and  of  content  —  and  of  misery.  I  tried 
to  look  away  from  her. 

"You  lie,  Elwyn  Bellford,"  she  breathed,  blissfully. 
"  Oh,  I  know  you  lie !  " 

I  gazed  dully  into  the  ferns. 

"  My  name  is  Edward  Pinkhammer,"  I  said.  "  I 
came  with  the  delegates  to  the  Druggists'  National  Con- 
vention. There  is  a  movement  on  foot  for  arranging  a 
new  position  for  the  bottles  of  tartrate  of  antimony  and 
tartrate  of  potash,  in  which,  very  likely,  you  would  take 
little  interest." 

A  shining  landau  stopped  before  the  entrance.  The 
lady  rose.  I  took  her  hand,  and  bowed. 

"  I  am  deeply  sorry,"  I  said  to  her,  "  that  I  cannot 


A  Ramble  in  \ApJiasia  143 

remember.  I  could  explain,  but  fear  you  would  not 
understand.  You  will  not  concede  Pinkhammer;  and 
I  really  cannot  at  all  conceive  of  the  —  the  roses  and 
other  things." 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Bellford,"  she  said,  with  her  happy, 
sorrowful  smile,  as  she  stepped  into  her  carriage. 

I  attended  the  theatre  that  night.  When  I  returned 
to  my  hotel,  a  quiet  man  in  dark  clothes,  who  seemed 
interested  in  rubbing  his  finger  nails  with  a  silk  handker- 
chief, appeared,  magically,  at  my  side. 

"  Mr.  Pinkhammer,"  he  said,  casually,  giving  the 
bulk  of  his  attention  to  his  forefinger,  "  may  I  request 
you  to  step  aside  with  me  for  a  little  conversation  r 
There  is  a  room  here." 

"  Certainly,"  I  answered. 

He  conducted  me  into  a  small,  private  parlor.  A 
lady  and  a  gentleman  were  there.  The  lady,  I  surmised, 
would  have  been  unusually  good-looking  had  her  fea- 
tures not  been  clouded  by  an  expression  of  keen  worry 
and  fatigue.  She  was  of  a  style  of  figure  and  possessed 
coloring  and  features  that  were  agreeable  to  my  fancy. 
She  was  in  a  traveling  dress ;  she  fixed  upon  me  an  ear- 
nest look  of  extreme  anxiety,  and  pressed  an  unsteady 
hand  to  her  bosom.  I  think  she  would  have  started  for- 
ward, but  the  gentleman  arrested  her  movement  with  an 
authoritative  motion  of  his  hand.  He  then  came,  him- 
self, to  meet  me.  He  was  a  man  of  forty,  a  little  gray 
about  the  temples,  and  with  a  strong,  thoughtful  face. 


144  Strictly  Business 

"  Bellford,  old  man,"  he  said,  cordially,  "  I'm  glad  to 
see  you  again.  Of  course  we  know  everything  is  all 
right.  I  warned  you,  you  know,  that  you  were  overdo- 
ing it.  Now,  you'll  go  back  with  us,  and  be  yourself 
again  in  no  time." 

I  smiled  ironically. 

"  I  have  been  '  Bellforded »  so  often,"  I  said,  "  that 
it  has  lost  its  edge.  Still,  in  the  end,  it  may  grow 
wearisome.  Would  you  be  willing  at  all  to  entertain  the 
hypothesis  that  my  name  is  Edward  Pinkhammer,  and 
that  I  never  saw  you  before  in  my  life?  " 

Before  the  man  could  reply  a  wailing  cry  came  from 
the  woman.  She  sprang  past  his  detaining  arm. 
"  Elwyn ! "  she  sobbed,  and  cast  herself  upon  me,  and 
clung  tight.  "  Elwyn,"  she  cried  again,  "  don't  break 
my  heart.  I  am  your  wife  —  call  my  name  once  — 
just  once,  I  «ould  see  you  dead  rather  than  this 
way." 

I  unwound  her  arms  respectfully,  but  firmly. 

"  Madam,"  I  said,  severely,  "  pardon  me  if  I  suggest 
that  you  accept  a  resemblance  too  precipitately.  It  is 
a  pity,"  I  went  on,  with  an  amused  laugh,  as  the  thought 
occurred  to  me,  **  that  this  Bellford  and  I  could  not  be 
kept  side  by  side  upon  the  same  shelf  like  tartrates  of 
sodium  and  antimony  for  purposes  of  identification. 
In  order  to  understand  the  allusion,"  I  concluded  airily, 
"  it  may  be  necessary  for  you  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
proceedings  of  the  Druggists'  National  Convention." 


A  'Ramble  in  Aphasia  145 

The  lady  turned  to  her  companion,  and  grasped  his 
arm. 

"  What  is  it,  Doctor  Volney?  Oh,  what  is  it?  "  she 
moaned. 

He  led  her  to  the  door. 

"  Go  to  your  room  for  a  while,"  I  heard  him  say.  "  I 
will  remain  and  talk  with  him.  His  mind?  No,  I  think 
not  —  only  a  portion  of  the  brain.  Yes,  I  am  sure  he 
•will  recover.  Go  to  your  room  and  leave  me  with  him." 

The  lady  disappeared.  The  man  in  dark  clothes  also 
went  outside,  still  manicuring  himself  in  a  thoughtful 
way.  I  think  he  waited  in  the  hall. 

"  I  would  like  to  talk  with  you  a  while,  Mr.  Pink- 
hammer,  if  I  may,"  said  the  gentleman  who  remained. 

"  Very  well,  if  you  care  to,"  I  replied,  "  and  will 
excuse  me  if  I  take  it  comfortably ;  I  am  rather  tired." 
I  stretched  myself  upon  a  couch  by  a  window  and  lit 
a  cigar.  He  drew  a  chair  nearby. 

"  Let  us  speak  to  the  point,"  he  said,  soothingly. 
"  Your  name  is  not  Pinkhammer." 

"  I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do,"  I  said,  coolly. 
"  But  a  man  must  have  a  name  of  some  sort.  I  can  as- 
sure you  that  I  do  not  extravagantly  admire  the  name  of 
Pinkhammer.  But  when  one  christens  one's  self  sud- 
denly, the  fine  names  do  not  seem  to  suggest  themselves. 
But,  suppose  it  had  been  Scheringhausen  or  Scroggins ! 
I  think  I  did  very  well  with  Pinkhammer." 

"  Your  name,"   said  the  other  man,   seriously,   "  is 


146  Strictly  Business 

Elwyn  C.  Bellford.  You  are  one  of  the  first  lawyers 
in  Denver.  You  are  suffering  from  an  attack  of 
aphasia,  which  has  caused  you  to  forget  your  identity. 
The  cause  of  it  was  over-application  to  your  profession, 
and,  perhaps,  a  life  too  bare  of  natural  recreation  and 
pleasures.  The  lady  who  has  just  left  the  room  is  your 
wife." 

"  She  is  what  I  would  call  a  fine-looking  woman,"  I 
said,  after  a  judicial  pause.  "  I  particularly  admire 
the  shade  of  brown  in  her  hair." 

"  She  is  a  wife  to  be  proud  of.  Since  your  disap- 
pearance, nearly  two  weeks  ago,  she  has  scarcely  closed 
her  eyes.  We  learned  that  you  were  in  New  York 
through  a  telegram  sent  by  Isidore  Newman,  a  travel- 
ing man  from  Denver.  He  said  that  he  had  met 
you  in  a  hotel  here,  and  that  you  did  not  recognize 
him." 

"  I  think  I  remember  the  occasion,"  I  said.  "  The 
fellow  called  me  *  Bellford,'  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  But 
don't  you  think  it  about  time,  now,  for  you  to  introduce 
yourself?  " 

"  I  am  Robert  Volney  —  Doctor  Volney.  I  have 
been  your  close  friend  for  twenty  years,  and  your  phy- 
sician for  fifteen.  I  came  with  Mrs.  Bellford  to  trace 
you  as  soon  as  we  got  the  telegram.  Try,  Elwyn,  old 
man  —  try  to  remember !  " 

"  What's  the  use  to  try?  "  I  asked,  with  a  little  frown. 
*'  You  say  you  are  a  physician.  Is  aphasia  curable  ? 


A  Ramble  in  Aphasia  147 

When  a  man  loses  his  memory  does  it  return  slowly,  or 
suddenly  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  gradually  and  imperfectly ;  sometimes  as 
suddenly  as  it  went." 

"  Will  you  undertake  the  treatment  of  my  case,  Doc- 
tor Volney  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Old  friend,"  said  he,  "  I'll  do  everything  in  my 
power,  and  will  have  done  everything  that  science  can 
do  to  cure  you." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I.  "  Then  you  will  consider  that 
I  am  your  patient.  Everything  is  in  confidence  now  — 
professional  confidence." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Doctor  Volney. 

I  got  up  from  the  couch.  Some  one  had  set  a  vase 
of  white  roses  on  the  centre  table  —  a  cluster  of  white 
roses,  freshly  sprinkled  and  fragrant.  I  threw  them 
far  out  of  the  window,  and  then  I  laid  myself  upon  the 
couch  again. 

"  It  will  be  best,  Bobby,"  I  said,  "  to  have  this  cure 
happen  suddenly.  I'm  rather  tired  of  it  all,  anyway. 
You  may  go  now  and  bring  Marian  in.  But,  oh,  Doc," 
I  said,  with  a  sigh,  as  I  kicked  him  on  the  shin  — "  good 
old  Doc  —  it  was  glorious !  " 


XIII 
A  MUNICIPAL  REPORT 

The  cities  are  full  of  pride, 

Challenging  each  to  each  — 
This  from  her  mountainside, 

That  from  her  burthened  beach. 

R.  KIPLING. 

Fancy  a  novel  about  Chicago  or  Buffalo,  let  us  say,  o* 
Nashville,  Tennessee!  There  are  just  three  big  cities  in 
the  United  States  that  are  "  story  cities  "  —  New  York,  of 
course,  New  Orleans,  and,  best  of  the  lot,  San  Francisco.  — 
FRANK  NORMS. 


is  East,  and  West  is  San  Francisco,  according 
to  Calif  ornians.  Calif  ornians  are  a  race  of  people  ; 
they  are  not  merely  inhabitants  of  a  State.  They  are 
the  Southerners  of  the  West.  Now,  Chicagoans  are  no 
less  loyal  to  their  city  ;  but  when  you  ask  them  why,  they 
stammer  and  speak  of  lake  fish  and  the  new  Odd  Fel- 
lows Building.  But  Californians  go  into  detail. 

Of  course  they  have,  in  the  climate,  an  argument  that 
is  good  for  half  an  hour  while  you  are  thinking  of  your 
coal  bills  and  heavy  underwear.  But  as  soon  as  they 

come  to  mistake  your  silence  for  conviction,  madness 

148 


A  Municipal  Report  149 

comes  upon  them,  and  they  picture  the  city  of  the 
Golden  Gate  as  the  Bagdad  of  the  New  World.  So 
far,  as  a  matter  of  opinion,  no  refutation  is  necessary. 
But,  dear  cousins  all  (from  Adam  and  Eve  descended), 
it  is  a  rash  one  who  will  lay  his  finger  on  the  map  and 
say :  "  In  this  town  there  can  be  no  romance  —  what 
could  happen  here?  "  Yes,  it  is  a  bold  and  a  rash  deed 
•to  challenge  in  one  sentence  history,  romance,  and  Rand 
and  McNally. 

NASHVILLE. —  A  city,  port  of  delivery,  and  the  capital  of 
Ihe  State  of  Tennessee,  is  on  the  Cumberland  River  and  on 
the  N.  C.  &  St.  L.  and  the  L.  &  N.  railroads.  This  city  is 
regarded  as  the  most  important  educational  centre  in  the 
South. 

I  stepped  off  the  train  at  8  P.  M.  Having  searched 
the  thesaurus  in  vain  for  adjectives,  I  must,  as  a  substi- 
tution, hie  me  to  comparison  in  the  form  of  a  recipe. 

Take  of  London  fog  30  parts ;  malaria  10  parts ;  gas 
leaks  20  parts ;  dewdrops  gathered  in  a  brick  yard  at 
sunrise,  25  parts;  odor  of  honeysuckle  15  parts. 
Mix. 

The  mixture  will  give  you  an  approximate  conception 
of  a  Nashville  drizzle.  It  is  not  so  fragrant  as  a 
moth-ball  nor  as  thick  as  pea-soup ;  but  'tis  enough  — 
'twill  serve. 

I  went  to  a  hotel  in  a  tumbril.  It  required  strong 
self -suppression  for  me  to  keep  from  climbing  to  the 


150  Strictly  Business 

top  of  it  and  giving  an  imitation  of  Sidney  Carton. 
The  vehicle  was  drawn  by  beasts  of  a  bygone  era  and 
driven  by  something  dark  and  emancipated. 

I  was  sleepy  and  tired,  so  when  I  got  to  the  hotel  I 
hurriedly  paid  it  the  fifty  cents  it  demanded  (with  ap- 
proximate lagniappe,  I  assure  you).  I  knew  its  habits; 
and  I  did  not  want  to  hear  it  prate  about  its  old 
"  marster "  or  anything  that  happened  "  befo'  de 
wah." 

The  hotel  was  one  of  the  kind  described  as  "  reno- 
rated."  That  means  $20,000  worth  of  new  marble  pil- 
lars, tiling,  electric  lights  and  brass  cuspidors  in  the 
lobby,  and  a  new  L.  &  N.  time  table  and  a  lithograph  of 
Lookout  Mountain  in  each  one  of  the  great  rooms  above. 
The  management  was  without  reproach,  the  attention 
full  of  exquisite  Southern  courtesy,  the  service  as  slow 
as  the  progress  of  a  snail  and  as  good-humored  as  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  The  food  was  worth  traveling  a  thousand 
miles  for.  There  is  no  other  hotel  in  the  world  where 
you  can  get  such  chicken  livers  en  brochette. 

At  dinner  I  asked  a  Negro  waiter  if  there  was  any- 
thing doing  in  town.  He  pondered  gravely  for  a 
minute,  and  then  replied :  "  Well,  boss,  I  don't  really 
reckon  there's  anything  at  all  doin'  after  sundown." 

Sundown  had  been  accomplished ;  it  had  been  drowned 
in  the  drizzle  long  before.  So  that  spectacle  was  denied 
me.  But  I  went  forth  upon  the  streets  in  the  drizzle  to 
see  what  might  be  there. 


A  Municipal  Report  151 

It  is  built  on  undulating  grounds;  and  the  streets  are 
lighted  by  electricity  at  a  cost  of  $32,470  per  annum. 

As  I  left  the  hotel  there  was  a  race  riot.  Down  upon 
me  charged  a  company  of  freedmen,  or  Arabs,  or  Zulus, 
armed  with  —  no,  I  saw  with  relief  that  they  were 
not  rifles,  but  whips.  And  I  saw  dimly  a  caravan  of 
black,  clumsy  vehicles;  and  at  the  reassuring  shouts, 
"  Kyar  you  anywhere  in  the  town,  boss,  fuh  fifty 
cents,"  I  reasoned  that  I  was  merely  a  "  fare  "  instead 
of  a  victim. 

I  walked  through  long  streets,  all  leading  uphill.  I 
wondered  how  those  streets  ever  came  down  again.  Per- 
haps they  didn't  until  they  were  "  graded."  On  a  few 
of  the  "  main  streets  "  I  saw  lights  in  stores  here  and 
there ;  saw"  street  cars  go  by  conveying  worthy  burghers 
hither  and  yon;  saw  people  pass  engaged  in  the  art 
of  conversation,  and  heard  a  burst  of  semi-lively 
laughter  issuing  from  a  soda-water  and  ice-cream  parlor. 
The  streets  other  than  "  main  "  seemed  to  have  enticed 
upon  their  borders  houses  consecrated  to  peace  and 
domesticity.  In  many  of  them  lights  shone  behind  dis- 
creetly drawn  window  shades ;  in  a  few  pianos  tinkled 
orderly  and  irreproachable  music.  There  was,  indeed, 
little  "  doing."  I  wished  I  had  come  before  sundown. 
So  I  returned  to  my  hotel. 

In  November,  1864,  the  Confederate  General  Hood  ad- 
vanced against  Nashville,  where  he  shut  up  a  National  force 


152  Strictly  Business 

under  General  Thomas.     The  latter  then  sallied  forth  and 
defeated  the  Confederates  in  a  terrible  conflict. 

All  my  life  I  have  heard  of,  admired,  and  witnessed 
the  fine  marksmanship  of  the  South  in  its  peaceful  con- 
flicts in  the  tobacco-chewing  regions.  But  in  my  hotel 
a  surprise  awaited  me.  There  were  twelve  bright,  new, 
imposing,  capacious  brass  cuspidors  in  the  great  lobby, 
tall  enough  to  be  called  urns  and  so  wide-mouthed  that 
the  crack  pitcher  of  a  lady  baseball  team  should  have 
been  able  to  throw  a  ball  into  one  of  them  at  five  paces 
distant.  But,  although  a  terrible  battle  had  raged  and 
was  still  raging,  the  enemy  had  not  suffered.  Bright, 
new,  imposing,  capacious,  untouched,  they  stood.  But, 
shades  of  Jefferson  Brick !  the  tile  floor  —  the  beautiful 
tile  floor!  I  could  not  avoid  thinking  of  the  battle  of 
Nashville,  and  trying  to  draw,  as  is  my  foolish  habit, 
some  deductions  about  hereditary  marksmanship. 

Here  I  first  saw  Major  (by  misplaced  courtesy) 
Wentworth  Caswell.  I  knew  him  for  a  type  the  moment 
my  eyes  suffered  from  the  sight  of  him.  A  rat  has  no 
geographical  habitat.  My  old  friend,  A.  Tennyson, 
said,  as  he  so  well  said  almost  everything: 

Prophet,  curse  me  the  blabbing  lip, 

And  curse  me  the  British  vermin,  the  rat. 

Let  us  regard  the  word  "  British  "  as  interchangeable 
ad  lib.  A  rat  is  a  rat. 

This  man  was  hunting  about  the  hotel  lobby  like  a 


A  Municipal  "Report  153 

starved  dog  that  had  forgotten  where  he  had  buried 
a  bone.  He  had  a  face  of  great  acreage,  red,  pulpy, 
and  with  a  kind  of  sleepy  massiveness  like  that  of  Bud- 
dha. He  possessed  one  single  virtue  —  he  was  very 
smoothly  shaven.  The  mark  of  the  beast  is  not  indelible 
upon  a  man  until  he  goes  about  with  a  stubble.  I  think 
that  if  he  had  not  used  his  razor  that  day  I  would  have 
repulsed  his  advances,  and  the  criminal  calendar  of  the 
world  would  have  been  spared  the  addition  of  one 
murder. 

I  happened  to  be  standing  within  five  feet  of  a  cus- 
pidor when  Major  Caswell  opened  fire  upon  it.  I  had 
been  observant  enough  to  perceive  that  the  attacking 
force  was  using  Gatlings  instead  of  squirrel  rifles ;  so  I 
side-stepped  so  promptly  that  the  major  seized  the  op- 
portunity to  apologize  to  a  noncombatant.  He  had  the 
blabbing  lip.  In  four  minutes  he  had  become  my 
friend  and  had  dragged  me  to  the  bar. 

I  desire  to  interpolate  here  that  I  am  a  Southerner. 
But  I  am  not  one  by  profession  or  trade.  I  eschew  the 
string  tie,  the  slouch  hat,  the  Prince  Albert,  the  number 
of  bales  of  cotton  destroyed  by  Sherman,  and  plug 
chewing.  When  the  orchestra  plays  Dixie  I  do  not 
cheer.  I  slide  a  little  lower  on  the  leather-cornered  seat 
and,  well,  order  another  Wiirzburger  and  wish  that 
Longstreet  had  —  but  what's  the  use? 

Major  Caswell  banged  the  bar  with  his  fist,  and  the 
first  gun  at  Fort  Sumter  re-echoed.  When  he  fired  the 


154  Strictly  Business 

last  one  at  Appomattox  I  began  to  hope.  But  then  he 
began  on  family  trees,  and  demonstrated  that  Adam  was 
only  a  third  cousin  of  a  collateral  branch  of  the  Caswell 
family.  Genealogy  disposed  of,  he  took  up,  to  my  dis- 
taste, his  private  family  matters.  •  He  spoke  of  his  wife, 
traced  her  descent  back  to  Eve,  and  profanely  denied 
any  possible  rumor  that  she  may  have  had  relations  in 
the  land  of  Nod. 

By  this  time  I  began  to  suspect  that  he  was  trying  to 
obscure  by  noise  the  fact  that  he  had  ordered  the  drinks, 
on  the  chance  that  I  would  be  bewildered  into  paying  for 
them.  But  when  they  were  down  he  crashed  a  silver 
dollar  loudly  upon  the  bar.  Then,  of  course,  another 
serving  was  obligatory.  And  when  I  had  paid  for  that 
I  took  leave  of  him  brusquely ;  for  I  wanted  no  more  of 
him.  But  before  I  had  obtained  my  release  he  had 
prated  loudly  of  an  income  that  his  wife  received,  and 
showed  a  handful  of  silver  money. 

When  I  got  my  key  at  the  desk  the  clerk  said  to  me 
courteously :  "  If  that  man  Caswell  has  annoyed  you, 
and  if  you  would  like  to  make  a  complaint,  we  will  have 
him  ejected.  He  is  a  nuisance,  a  loafer,  and  without 
any  known  means  of  support,  although  he  seems  to  have 
some  money  most  the  time.  But  we  don't  seem  to  be 
able  to  hit  upon  any  means  of  throwing  him  out  legally." 

"  Why,  no,"  said  I,  after  some  reflection ;  "  I  don't 
see  my  way  clear  to  making  a  complaint.  But  I  would 
like  to  place  myself  on  record  as  asserting  that  I  do 


A  Municipal  Report  155 

not  care  for  his  company.  Your  town,"  I  continued, 
"  seems  to  be  a  quiet  one.  What  manner  of  entertain- 
ment, adventure,  or  excitement  have  you  to  offer  to  the 
stranger  within  your  gates?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  "  there  will  be  a  show 
here  next  Thursday.  It  is  —  I'll  look  it  up  and  have 
the  announcement  sent  up  to  your  room  with  the  ice 
water.  Good  night." 

After  I  went  up  to  my  room  I  looked  out  the  window. 
It  was  only  about  ten  o'clock,  but  I  looked  upon  a  silent 
town.  The  drizzle  continued,  :  pangled  with  dim  lights, 
as  far  apart  as  currants  in  a  cake  sold  at  the  Ladies' 
Exchange. 

"A  quiet  place,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  my  first  shoe 
struck  the  ceiling  of  the  occupant  of  the  room  beneath 
mine.  "  Nothing  of  the  life  here  that  gives  color  and 
variety  to  the  cities  in  the  East  and  West.  Just  a 
good,  ordinary,  humdrum,  business  town." 

Nashville  occupies  a  foremost  place  among  the  manu- 
facturing centres  of  the  country.  It  is  the  fifth  boet  and 
shoe  market  in  the  United  States,  the  largest  candy  and 
cracker  manufacturing  city  in  the  South,  and  does  an 
enormous  wholesale  drygoods,  grocery,  and  drug  business. 

I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  to  be  in  Nashville,  and  I 
assure  you  the  digression  brings  as  much  tedium  to  me 
as  it  does  to  you.  I  was  traveling  elsewhere  on  my  own 
business,  but  I  had  a  commission  from  a  Northern  liter- 


156  Strictly  Business 

ary  magazine  to  stop  over  there  and  establish  a  personal 
connection  between  the  publication  and  one  of  its  con- 
tributors, Azalea  Adair. 

Adair  (there  was  no  clue  to  the  personality  except  the 
handwriting)  had  sent  in  some  essays  (lost  art!)  and 
poems  that  had  made  the  editors  swear  approvingly  over 
their  one  o'clock  luncheon.  So  they  had  commissioned 
me  to  round  up  said  Adair  and  corner  by  contract  his 
or  her  output  at  two  cents  a  word  before  some  other 
publisher  offered  her  ten  or  twenty. 

At  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning,  after  my  chicken 
livers  en  brochette  (try  them  if  you  can  find  that  hotel), 
I  strayed  out  into  the  drizzle,  which  was  still  on  for  an 
unlimited  run.  At  the  first  corner  I  came  upon  U/icle 
Cassar.  He  was  a  stalwart  Negro,  older  than  the  pyra- 
mids, with  gray  wool  and  a  face  that  reminded  me  of 
Brutus,  and  a  second  afterwards  of  the  late  King  Cetti- 
wayo.  He  wore  the  most  remarkable  coat  that  I  ever 
had  seen  or  expect  to  see.  It  reached  to  his  ankles  and 
had  once  been  a  Confederate  gray  in  colors.  But  rain 
and  sun  and  age  had  so  variegated  it  that  Joseph's  coat, 
beside  it,  would  have  faded  to  a  pale  monochrome.  I 
must  linger  with  that  coat,  for  it  has  to  do  with  the  story 
—  the  story  that  is  so  long  in  coming,  because  you  can 
hardly  expect  anything  to  happen  in  Nashville. 

Once  it  must  have  been  the  military  coat  of  an  officer. 
The  cape  of  it  had  vanished,  but  all  adown  its  front  it 
had  been  frogged  and  tasseled  magnificently.  But 


A  Municipal  Report  157 

the  frogs  and  tassels  were  gone.  In  their  stead  had  been 
patiently  stitched  (I  surmised  by  some  surviving  "  black 
mammy  ")  new  frogs  made  of  cunningly  twisted  com- 
mon hempen  twine.  This  twine  was  frayed  and  dis- 
heveled. It  must  have  been  added  to  the  coat  as  a 
substitute  for  vanished  splendors,  with  tasteless  but 
painstaking  devotion,  for  it  followed  faithfully  the 
curves  of  the  long-missing  frogs.  And,  to  complete  the 
comedy  and  pathos  of  the  garment,  all  its  buttons  were 
gone  save  one.  The  second  button  from  the  top  alone 
remained.  The  coat  was  fastened  by  other  twine  strings 
tied  through  the  buttonholes  and  other  holes  rudely 
pierced  in  the  opposite  side.  There  was  never  such  a 
weird  garment  so  fantastically  bedecked  and  of  so  many 
mottled  hues.  The  lone  button  was  the  size  of  a  half- 
dollar,  made  of  yellow  horn  and  sewed  on  with  coarse 
twine. 

This  Negro  stood  by  a  carriage  so  old  that  Ham  him- 
self might  have  started  a  hack  line  with  it  after  he  left 
the  ark  with  the  two  animals  hitched  to  it.  As  I  ap- 
proached he  threw  open  the  door,  drew  out  a  feather 
duster,  waved  it  without  using  it,  and  said  in  deep, 
rumbling  tones: 

"  Step  right  in,  suh ;  ain't  a  speck  of  dust  in  it  — 
jus'  got  back  from  a  funeral,  suh." 

I  inferred  that  on  such  gala  occasions  carriages  were 
given  an  extra  cleaning.  I  looked  up  and  down  the 
street  and  perceived  that  there  was  little  choice  among 


158  Strictly  Business 

the  vehicles  for  hire  that  lined  the  curb.  I  looked  in 
my  memorandum  book  for  the  address  of  Azalea 
Adair. 

"  I  want  to  go  to  861  Jessamine  Street,"  I  said,  and 
Was  about  to  step  into  the  hack.  But  for  an  instant  the 
thick,  long,  gorilla-like  arm  of  the  old  Negro  barred  me. 
On  his  massive  and  saturnine  face  a  look  of  sudden  sus- 
picion and  enmity  flashed  for  a  moment.  Then,  with 
quickly  returning  conviction,  he  asked  blandishingly : 
"  What  are  you  gwine  there  for,  boss  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  to  you?  "  I  asked,  a  little  sharply. 

"  Nothin',  suh,  jus'  nothin'.  Only  it's  a  lonesome 
kind  of  part  of  town  and  few  folks  ever  has  business 
out  there.  Step  right  in.  The  seats  is  clean  —  jes'  got 
back  from  a  funeral,  suh." 

A  mile  and  a  half  it  must  have  been  to  our  journey's 
end.  I  could  hear  nothing  but  the  fearful  rattle  of  the 
ancient  hack  over  the  uneven  brick  paving ;  I  could  smell 
nothing  but  the  drizzle,  now  further  flavored  with  coal 
smoke  and  something  like  a  mixture  of  tar  and  oleander 
blossoms.  All  I  could  see  through  the  streaming  win- 
dows were  two  rows  of  dim  houses. 

The  city  has  an  area  of  10  square  miles;  181  miles  of 
streets,  of  which  137  miles  are  paved;  a  system  of  water- 
works that  cost  $2,000,000,  with  77  miles  of  mains. 

Eight-sixty-one  Jessamine  Street  was  a  decayed  man- 
sion. Thirty  yards  back  from  the  street  it  stood,  out- 


A  Municipal  Report  159 

merged  in  a  splendid  grove  of  trees  and  untrimmed  shrub- 
bery. A  row  of  box  bushes  overflowed  and  almost  hid 
the  paling  fence  from  sight;  the  gate  was  kept  closed 
by  a  rope  noose  that  encircled  the  gate  post  and  the 
first  paling  of  the  gate.  But  when  you  got  inside  you 
saw  that  861  was  a  shell,  a  shadow,  a  ghost  of  former 
grandeur  and  excellence.  But  in  the  story,  I  have  not 
yet  got  inside. 

When  the  hack  had  ceased  from  rattling  and  the  weary 
quadrupeds  came  to  a  rest  I  handed  my  jehu  his  fifty 
cents  with  an  additional  quarter,  feeling  a  glow  of  con- 
scious generosity,  as  I  did  so.  He  refused  it. 

"  It's  two  dollars,  suh,"  he  said. 

"  How's  that  ?  "  I  asked.  "  I  plainly  heard  you  call 
out  at  the  hotel :  *  Fifty  cents  to  any  part  of  the  town.' ' 

"  It's  two  dollars,  suh,"  he  repeated  obstinately. 
"  It's  a  long  ways  from  the  hotel." 

"  It  is  within  the  city  limits  and  well  within  them,"  I 
argued.  "  Don't  think  that  you  have  picked  up  a  green- 
horn Yankee.  Do  you  see  those  hills  over  there  ?  "  I 
went  on,  pointing  toward  the  east  (I  could  not  see  them, 
myself,  for  the  drizzle)  ;  "well,  I  was  born  ancl  raised  on 
their  other  side.  You  old  fool  nigger,  can't  you  tell 
people  from  other  people  when  you  see  'em?  " 

The  grim  face  of  King  Cettiwayo  softened.  "  Is  you 
from  the  South,  suh?  I  reckon  it  was  them  shoes  of 
yourn  fooled  me.  They  is  somethin'  sharp  in  the  toea 
for  a  Southern  gen'l'man  to  wear." 


160  Strictly  Business 

"  Then  the  charge  is  fifty  cents,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  I 
inexorably. 

His  former  expression,  a  mingling  of  cupidity  and 
hostility,  returned,  remained  ten  seconds,  and  vanished. 

"  Boss,"  he  said,  "  fifty  cents  is  right ;  but  I  needs  two 
dollars,  suh;  I'm  obleeged  to  have  two  dollars.  I  ain't 
demandin'  it  now,  suh ;  after  I  knows  whar  you's  from ; 
I'm  jus'  say  in'  that  I  has  to  have  two  dollars  to-night, 
and  business  is  mighty  po'." 

Peace  and  confidence  settled  upon  his  heavy  features. 
He  had  been  luckier  than  he  had  hoped.  Instead  of 
having  picked  up  a  greenhorn,  ignorant  of  rates,  he  had 
come  upon  an  inheritance. 

"  You  confounded  old  rascal,"  I  said,  reaching  down 
to  my  pocket,  "  you  ought  to  be  turned  over  to  the  po- 
lice." 

For  the  first  time  I  saw  him  smile.  He  knew ;  he 
Tcnew;  HE  KNEW. 

I  gave  him  two  one-dollar  bills.  As  I  handed  them 
over  I  noticed  that  one  of  them  had  seen  parlous  times. 
Its  upper  right-hand  corner  was  missing,  and  it  had  been 
torn  through  in  the  middle,  but  joined  again.  A  strip 
of  blue  tissue  paper,  pasted  over  the  split,  preserved  its 
negotiability. 

Enough  of  the  African  bandit  for  the  present :  I  left 
him  happy,  lifted  the  rope  and  opened  the  creaky  gate. 

The  house,  as  I  said,  was  a  shell.  A  paint  brush  had 
not  touched  it  in  twenty  years.  I  could  not  see  why  a 


A  Municipal  Report  161 

strong  wind  should  not  have  bowled  it  over  like  a  house 
of  cards  until  I  looked  again  at  the  trees  that  hugged  it 
close  —  the  trees  that  saw  the  battle  of  Nashville  and 
still  drew  their  protecting  branches  around  it  against 
storm  and  enemy  and  cold. 

Azalea  Adair,  fifty  years  old,  white-haired,  a  descend- 
ant of  the  cavaliers,  as  thin  and  frail  as  the  house  she 
lived  in,  robed  in  the  cheapest  and  cleanest  dress  I  ever 
saw,  with  an  air  as  simple  as  a  queen's,  received  me. 

The  reception  room  seemed  a  mile  square,  because 
there  was  nothing  in  it  except  some  rows  of  books,  on 
unpainted  white-pine  bookshelves,  a  cracked  marble-top 
table,  a  rag  rug,  a  hairless  horsehair  sofa  and  two  or 
three  chairs.  Yes,  there  was  a  picture  on  the  wall,  a 
colored  crayon  drawing  of  a  cluster  of  pansies.  I  looked 
around  for  the  portrait  of  Andrew  Jackson  and  the  pine- 
cone  hanging  basket  but  they  were  not  there. 

Azalea  Adair  and  I  had  conversation,  a  little  of  which 
will  be  repeated  to  you.  She  was  a  product  of  the  old 
South,  gently  nurtured  in  the  sheltered  life.  Her  learn- 
ing was  not  broad,  but  was  deep  and  of  splendid  original- 
ity in  its  somewhat  narrow  scope.  She  had  been  educated 
at  home,  and  her  knowledge  of  the  world  was  derived 
from  inference  and  by  inspiration.  Of  such  is  the 
precious,  small  group  of  essayists  made.  While  she 
talked  to  me  I  kept  brushing  my  fingers,  trying,  uncon- 
sciously, to  rid  them  guiltily  of  the  absent  dust  from  the 
half-calf  backs  of  Lamb,  Chaucer,  Hazlitt,  Marcus  Aure- 


162  Strictly  Business 

lius,  Montaigne  and  Hood.  She  was  exquisite,  she  was 
a  valuable  discovery.  Nearly  everybody  nowadays 
knows  too  much  —  oh,  so  much  too  much  —  of  real  life. 

I  could  perceive  clearly  that  Azalea  Adair  was  very 
poor.  A  house  and  a  dress  she  had,  not  much  else,  I  fan- 
cied. So,  divided  between  my  duty  to  the  magazine  and 
my  loyalty  to  the  poets  and  essayists  who  fought  Thomas 
in  the  valley  of  the  Cumberland,  I  listened  to  her  voice, 
which  was  like  a  harpsichord's,  and  found  that  I  could 
not  speak  of  contracts.  In  the  presence  of  the  nine 
Muses  and  the  three  Graces  one  hesitated  to  lower  the 
topic  to  two  cents.  There  would  have  to  be  another  col- 
loquy after  I  had  regained  my  commercialism.  But  I 
spoke  of  my  mission,  and  three  o'clock  of  the  next  after- 
noon was  set  for  the  discussion  of  the  business  proposi- 
tion. 

"  Your  town,"  I  said,  as  I  began  to  make  ready  to 
depart  (which  is  the  time  for  smooth  generalities), 
"  seems  to  be  a  quiet,  sedate  place.  A  home  town,  I 
should  say,  where  few  things  out  of  the  ordinary  ever 
happen." 

It  carries  on  an  extensive  trade  in  stoves  and  hollow 
ware  with  the  West  and  South,  and  its  flouring  mills  have 
a  daily  capacity  of  more  than  2,000  barrels. 

Azalea  Adair  seemed  to  reflect. 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  it  that  way,"  she  said,  with  a 
kind  of  sincere  intensity  that  seemed  to  belong  to  her. 


A  Municipal  Report  163 

"  Isn't  it  in  the  still,  quiet  places  that  things  do  happen? 
I  fancy  that  when  God  began  to  create  the  earth  on  the 
first  Monday  morning  one  could  have  leaned  out  one's 
window  and  heard  the  drops  of  mud  splashing  from  His 
trowel  as  He  built  up  the  everlasting  hills.  What  did 
the  noisiest  project  in  the  world  —  I  mean  the  building 
of  the  tower  of  Babel  —  result  in  finally?  A  page  and  a 
half  of  Esperanto  in  the  North  American  Review." 

"  Of  course,"  said  I  platitudinously,  "  human  nature 
is  the  same  everywhere ;  but  there  is  more  color  —  er  — 
more  drama  and  movement  and  —  er  —  romance  in  some 
cities  than  in  others." 

"  On  the  surface,"  said  Azalea  Adair.  "  I  have  trav- 
eled many  times  around  the  world  in  a  golden  airship 
wafted  on  two  wings  —  print  and  dreams.  I  have  seen 
(on  one  of  my  imaginary  tours)  the  Sultan  of  Turkey 
bowstring  with  his  own  hands  one  of  his  wives  who  had 
uncovered  her  face  in  public.  I  have  seen  a  man  in 
Nashville  tear  up  his  theatre  tickets  because  his  wife  was 
going  out  with  her  face  covered  —  with  rice  powder.  In 
San  Francisco's  Chinatown  I  saw  the  slave  girl  Sing  Yee 
dipped  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  in  boiling  almond  oil  to 
make  her  swear  she  would  never  see  her  American  lover 
again.  She  gave  in  when  the  boiling  oil  had  reached 
three  inches  above  her  knee.  At  a  euchre  party  in  East 
Nashville  the  other  night  I  saw  Kitty  Morgan  cut  dead 
by  seven  of  her  schoolmates  and  lifelong  friends  because 
she  had  married  a  house  painter.  The  boiling  oil  was 


164  Strictly  Business 

sizzling  as  high  as  her  heart ;  but  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  the  fine  little  smile  that  she  carried  from  table  to 
table.  Oh,  yes,  it  is  a  humdrum  town.  Just  a  few  miles 
of  red  brick  houses  and  mud  and  stores  and  lumber 
yards." 

Some  one  knocked  hollowly  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
Azalea  Adair  breathed  a  soft  apology  and  went  to  inves- 
tigate the  sound.  She  came  back  in  three  minutes  with 
brightened  eyes,  a  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and  ten 
years  lifted  from  her  shoulders. 

"  You  must  have  a  cup  of  tea  before  you  go,"  she 
said,  "  and  a  sugar  cake." 

She  reached  and  shook  a  little  iron  bell.  In  shuffled  a 
small  Negro  girl  about  twelve,  barefoot,  not  very  tidy, 
glowering  at  me  with  thumb  in  mouth  and  bulging  eyes. 

Azalea  Adair  opened  a  tiny,  worn  purse  and  drew  out 
a  dollar  bill,  a  dollar  bill  with  the  upper  right-hand  cor- 
ner missing,  torn  in  two  pieces  and  pasted  together  again 
with  a  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper.  It  was  one  of  the  bills 
I  had  given  the  piratical  Negro  —  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it. 

"  Go  up  to  Mr.  Baker's  store  on  the  corner,  Impy," 
she  said,  handing  the  girl  the  dollar  bill,  "  and  get  a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  tea  —  the  kind  he  always  sends  me 
—  and  ten  cents  worth  of  sugar  cakes.  Now,  hurry. 
The  supply  of  tea  in  the  house  happens  to  be  exhausted," 
she  explained  to  me. 

Impy  left  by  the  back  way.     Before  the  scrape  of  her 


A  Municipal  Report  165 

hard,  bare  feet  had  died  away  on  the  back  porch,  a  wild 
shriek  —  I  was  sure  it  was  hers  —  filled  the  hollow  house. 
Then  the  deep,  gruff  tones  of  an  angry  man's  voice 
mingled  with  the  girl's  further  squeals  and  unintelligible 
words. 

Azalea  Adair  rose  without  surprise  or  emotion  and  dis* 
appeared.  For  two  minutes  I  heard  the  hoarse  rumble 
of  the  man's  voice;  then  something  like  an  oath  and  a 
slight  scuffle,  and  she  returned  calmly  to  her  chair. 

"  This  is  a  roomy  house,"  she  said,  "  and  I  have  a  ten- 
ant for  part  of  it.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  rescind  my 
invitation  to  tea.  It  was  impossible  to  get  the  kind  I 
always  use  at  the  store.  Perhaps  to-morrow  Mr.  Baker 
will  be  able  to  supply  me." 

I  was  sure  that  Impy  had  not  had  time  to  leave  the 
house.  I  inquired  concerning  street-car  lines  and  took 
my  leave.  After  I  was  well  on  my  way  I  remembered 
that  I  had  not  learned  Azalea  Adair's  name.  But  to- 
morrow would  do. 

That  same  day  I  started  in  on  the  course  of  iniquity 
that  this  uneventful  city  forced  upon  me.  I  was  in 
the  town  only  two  days,  but  in  that  time  I,  managed 
to  lie  shamelessly  by  telegraph,  and  to  be  an  accom- 
plice —  after  the  fact,  if  that  is  the  correct  legal  term  — 
to  a  murder. 

As  I  rounded  the  corner  nearest  my  hotel  the  Afrite 
coachman  of  the  polychromatic,  nonpareil  coat  seized 
me,  swung  open  the  dungeony  door  of  his  peripatetic 


166  Strictly  Business 

sarcophagus,  flirted  his  feather  duster  and  began  his 
ritual:  "  Step  right  in,  boss.  Carriage  is  clean  —  jus' 
got  back  from  a  funeral.  Fifty  cents  to  any  — " 

And  then  he  knew  me  and  grinned  broadly.  "  'Scuse 
me,  boss;  you  is  de  gen'l'man  what  rid  out  with  me  dis 
mawnin'.  Thank  you  kindly,  suh." 

"  I  am  going  out  to  861  again  to-morrow  afternoon  at 
three,"  said  I,  "  and  if  you  will  be  here,  I'll  let  you  drive 
me.  So  you  know  Miss  Adair?  "  I  concluded,  thinking 
of  my  dollar  bill. 

"  I  belonged  to  her  father,  Judge  Adair,  suh,"  he  re- 
plied. 

**  I  judge  that  she  is  pretty  poor,"  I  said.  "  She 
hasn't  much  money  to  speak  of,  has  she  ?  " 

For  an  instant  I  looked  again  at  the  fierce-  countenance 
of  King  Cettiwayo,  and  then  he  changed  back  to  an  ex- 
tortionate old  Negro  hack  driver. 

"  She  ain't  gwine  to  starve,  suh,"  h«  said  slowly* 
"  She  has  reso'ces,  suh ;  she  has  reso'ces." 

"  I  shall  pay  you  fifty  cents  for  the  trip,"  said  I. 

"  Dat  is  puffeckly  correct,  suh,"  he  answered  humbly. 
"  I  jus'  had  to  have  dat  two  dollars  dis  mawnin',  boss.'* 

I  went  to  the  hotel  and  lied  by  electricity.  I  wired 
the  magazine :  "  A.  Adair  holds  out  for  eight  cents  » 
word." 

The  answer  that  came  back  was :  "  Give  it  to  her 
quick,  you  duffer." 

Just  before  dinner  "  Major  "  Wentworth  Caswell  bore 


A  Municipal  Report  167 

down  upon  me  with  the  greetings  of  a  long-lost  friend. 
I  have  seen  few  men  whom  I  have  so  instantaneously 
hated,  and  of  whom  it  was  so  difficult  to  be  rid.  I  was 
standing  at  the  bar  when  he  invaded  me;  therefore  I 
could  not  wave  the  white  ribbon  in  his  face.  I  would 
have  paid  gladly  for  the  drinks,  hoping,  thereby,  to  es- 
cape another;  but  he  was  one  of  those  despicable,  roar- 
ing, advertising  bibbers  who  must  have  brass  bands  and 
fireworks  attend  upon  every  cent  that  they  waste  in  their 
follies. 

With  an  air  of  producing  millions  he  drew  two  one- 
dollar  bills  from  a  pocket  and  dashed  one  of  them  upon 
the  bar.  I  looked  once  more  at  the  dollar  bill  with  the 
upper  right-hand  corner  missing,  torn  through  the  mid- 
dle, and  patched  with  a  strip  of  blue  tissue  paper.  It 
was  my  dollar  bill  again.  It  could  have  been  no  other. 

I  went  up  to  my  room.  The  drizzle  and  the  monotony 
of  a  dreary,  eventless  Southern  town  had  made  me  tired 
and  listless.  I  remember  that  just  before  I  went  to  bed 
I  mentally  disposed  of  the  mysterious  dollar  bill  (which 
might  have  formed  the  clew  to  a  tremendously  fine  detec- 
tive story  of  San  Francisco)  by  saying  to  myself  sleep- 
ily :  "  Seems  as  if  a  lot  of  people  here  own  stock  in  the 
Hack-Driver's  Trust.  Pays  dividends  promptly,  toov 
Wonder  if  — "  Then  I  fell  asleep. 

King  Cettiwayo  was  at  his  post  the  next  day,  and  rat- 
tled my  bones  over  the  stones  out  to  861.  He  was  to 
•wait  and  rattle  me  back  again  when  I  was  ready. 


168  Strictly  Business 

Azalea  Adair  looked  paler  and  cleaner  and  frailer  than 
she  had  looked  on  the  day  before.  After  she  had  signed 
the  contract  at  eight  cents  per  word  she  grew  still  paler 
and  began  to  slip  out  of  her  chair.  Without  much  trou- 
ble I  managed  to  get  her  up  on  the  antediluvian  horse- 
hair sofa  and  then  I  ran  out  to  the  sidewalk  and  yelled  to 
the  coffee-colored  Pirate  to  bring  a  doctor.  With  a  wis- 
dom that  I  had  not  suspected  in  him,  he  abandoned  his 
team  and  struck  off  up  the  street  afoot,  realizing  the 
value  of  speed.  In  ten  minutes  he  returned  with  a  grave, 
gray-haired  and  capable  man  of  medicine.  In  a  few 
words  (worth  much  less  than  eight  cents  each)  I  ex- 
plained to  him  my  presence  in  the  hollow  house  of  mys- 
tery. He  bowed  with  stately  understanding,  and  turned 
to  the  old  Negro. 

"  Uncle  Caesar,"  he  said  calmly,  "  run  up  to  my  house 
and  ask  Miss  Lucy  to  give  you  a  cream  pitcher  full  of 
fresh  milk  and  half  a  tumbler  of  port  wine.  And  hurry 
back.  Don't  drive  —  run.  I  want  you  to  get  back 
sometime  this  week." 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Dr.  Merriman  also  felt  a  dis- 
trust as  to  the  speeding  powers  of  the  land-pirate's 
steeds.  After  Uncle  Cassar  was  gone,  lumberingly,  but 
swiftly,  up  the  street,  the  doctor  looked  me  over  with 
great  politeness  and  as  much  careful  calculation  until 
he  had  decided  that  I  might  do. 

"  It  is  only  a  case  of  insufficient  nutrition,"  he  said. 
"  In  other  words,  the  result  of  poverty,  pride,  and  star- 


A  Municipal  Report  169 

vation.  Mrs.  Caswell  has  many  devoted  friends  who 
would  be  glad  to  aid  her,  but  she  will  accept  nothing  ex- 
cept from  that  old  Negro,  Uncle  Casar,  who  was  once 
owned  by  her  family." 

"  Mrs.  Caswell ! "  said  I,  in  surprise.  And  then  I 
looked  at  the  contract  and  saw  that  she  had  signed  it 
'*  Azalea  Adair  Caswell." 

"  I  thought  she  was  Miss  Adair,"  I  said. 

"  Married  to  a  drunken,  worthless  loafer,  sir,"  said 
the  doctor.  "  It  is  said  that  he  robs  her  even  of  the 
small  sums  that  her  old  servant  contributes  toward  her 
support." 

When  the  milk  and  wine  had  been  brought  the  doctor 
soon  revived  Azalea  Adair.  She  sat  up  and  talked  of 
the  beauty  of  the  autumn  leaves  that  were  then  in  sea- 
son, and  their  height  of  color.  She  referred  lightly  to 
her  fainting  seizure  as  the  outcome  of  an  old  palpitation 
of  the  heart.  Impy  fanned  her  as  she  lay  on  the  sofa. 
The  doctor  was  due  elsewhere,  and  I  followed  him  to  ths 
door.  I  told  him  that  it  was  within  my  power  and  in-« 
tentions  to  make  a  reasonable  advance  of  money  to  Aza- 
lea Adair  on  future  contributions  to  the  magazine,  and 
he  seemed  pleased. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  you  would  like  t<s 
know  that  you  have  had  royalty  for  a  coachman.  Old 
Caesar's  grandfather  was  a  king  in  Congo.  Cassar  him- 
self has  royal  ways,  as  you  may  have  observed." 

As  the  doctor  was  moving  off  I  heard  Uncle  Caesar's 


170  Strictly  Business 

voice  inside :  "  Did  he  git  bof e  of  dem  two  dollars  from 
you,  Mis'  Zalea?  " 

"  Yes,  Caesar,"  I  heard  Azalea  Adair  answer  weakly. 
And  then  I  went  in  and  concluded  business  negotiations 
with  our  contributor.  I  assumed  the  responsibility  of 
advancing  fifty  dollars,  putting  it  as  a  necessary  formal- 
ity in  binding  our  bargain.  And  then  Uncle  Caesar 
drove  me  back  to  the  hotel. 

Here  ends  all  of  the  story  as  far  as  I  can  testify  as 
a  witness.  The  rest  must  be  only  bare  statements  of 
facts. 

At  about  six  o'clock  I  went  out  for  a  stroll.  Uncle 
Caesar  was  at  his  corner.  He  threw  open  the  door  of  his 
carriage,  flourished  his  duster  and  began  his  depressing 
formula :  "  Step  right  in,  suh.  Fifty  cents  to  any- 
where in  the  city  —  hack's  puffickly  clean,  suh  —  jus' 
got  back  from  a  funeral  — " 

And  then  he  recognized  me.  I  think  his  eyesight  was 
getting  bad.  His  coat  had  taken  on  a  few  more  faded 
shades  of  color,  the  twine  strings  were  more  frayed  and 
ragged,  the  last  remaining  button  —  the  button  of  yel- 
low horn  —  was  gone.  A  motley  descendant  of  kings 
was  Uncle  Caesar! 

About  two  hours  later  I  saw  an  excited  crowd  besieg- 
ing the  front  of  a  drug  store.  In  a  desert  where  nothing 
happens  this  was  manna ;  so  I  edged  my  way  inside.  On 
an  extemporized  couch  of  empty  boxes  and  chairs  was 
stretched  the  mortal  corporeality  of  Major  Wentworth 


A  Municipal  Report  171 

Caswell.  A  doctor  was  testing  him  for  the  immortal  in- 
gredient. His  decision  was  that  it  was  conspicuous  by 
its  absence. 

The  erstwhile  Major  had  been  found  dead  on  a  dark 
street  and  brought  by  curious  and  ennuied  citizens  to 
the  drug  store.  The  late  human  being  had  been  en- 
gaged in  terrific  battle  —  the  details  showed  that. 
Loafer  and  reprobate  though  he  had  been,  he  had  been 
also  a  warrior.  But  he  had  lost.  His  hands  were  yet 
clinched  so  tightly  that  his  fingers  would  not  be  opened. 
The  gentle  citizens  who  had  known  him  stood  about  and 
searched  their  vocabularies  to  find  some  good  words,  if  it 
were  possible,  to  speak  of  him.  One  kind-looking  man 
said,  after  much  thought :  "  When  *  Cas  '  was  about 
fo'teen  he  was  one  of  the  best  spellers  in  school." 

While  I  stood  there  the  fingers  of  the  right  hand  of 
"  the  man  that  was,"  which  hung  down  the  side  of  a  white 
pine  box,  relaxed,  and  dropped  something  at  my  feet. 
I  covered  it  with  one  foot  quietly,  and  a  little  later  on 
I  picked  it  up  and  pocketed  it.  I  reasoned  that  in  his 
last  struggle  his  hand  must  have  seized  that  object  un- 
wittingly and  held  it  in  a  death  grip. 

At  the  hotel  that  night  the  main  topic  of  conversation, 
with  the  possible  exceptions  of  politics  and  prohibition, 
was  the  demise  of  Major  Caswell.  I  heard  one  man  say 
to  a  group  of  listeners : 

"  In  my  opinion,  gentlemen,  Caswell  was  murdered  by 
some  of  these  no-account  niggers  for  his  money.  He 


172  Strictly  Business 

had  fifty  dollars  this  afternoon  which  he  showed  to  sev- 
eral gentlemen  in  the  hotel.  When  he  was  found  the 
money  was  not  on  his  person." 

I  left  the  city  the  next  morning  at  nine,  and  as  the 
train  was  crossing  the  bridge  over  the  Cumberland  River 
I  took  out  of  my  pocket  a  yellow  horn  overcoat  button 
the  size  of  a  fifty-cent  piece,  with  frayed  ends  of  coarse 
twine  hanging  from  it,  and  cast  it  out  of  the  window  into 
the  slow,  muddy  waters  below. 

/  wonder  what's  doing  in  Buffalo! 


XIV 
PSYCHE  AND  THE  PSKYSCRAPER 

IF  you  are  a  philosopher  you  can  do  this  thing:  you 
can  go  to  the  top  of  a  high  building,  look  down  upon 
your  fellow-men  300  feet  below,  and  despise  them  as  in- 
sects. Like  the  irresponsible  black  waterbugs  on  summer 
ponds,  they  crawl  and  circle  and  hustle  about  idiotically 
without  aim  or  purpose.  They  do  not  even  move  with 
the  admirable  intelligence  of  ants,  for  ants  always  know 
when  they  are  going  home.  The  ant  is  of  a  lowly  sta- 
tion, but  he  will  often  reach  home  and  get  his  slippers  on 
while  you  are  left  at  your  elevated  station. 

Man,  then,  to  the  housetopped  philosopher,  appears 
to  be  but  a  creeping,  contemptible  beetle.  Brokers, 
poets,  millionaires,  bootblacks,  beauties,  hod-carriers  and 
politicians  become  little  black  specks  dodging  bigger 
black  specks  in  streets  no  wider  than  your  thumb. 

From  this  high  view  the  city  itself  becomes  degraded 
to  an  unintelligible  mass  of  distorted  buildings  and  im- 
possible perspectives ;  the  revered  ocean  is  a  duck  pond ; 
the  earth  itself  a  lost  golf  ball.  All  the  minutias  of  life 
are  gone.  The  philosopher  gazes  into  the  infinite  heav- 
ens above  him,  and  allows  his  soul  to  expand  to  the  influ- 
ence of  his  new  view.  He  feels  that  he  is  the  heir  to 

173 


174  Strictly  Business 

Eternity  and  the  child  of  Time.  Space,  too,  should  be 
his  by  the  right  of  his  immortal  heritage,  and  he  thrills 
at  the  thought  that  some  day  his  kind  shall  traverse 
those  mysterious  aerial  roads  between  planet  and  planet. 
The  tiny  world  beneath  his  feet  upon  which  this  tower- 
ing structure  of  steel  rests  as  a  speck  of  dust  upon  a 
Himalayan  mountain  —  it  is  but  one  of  a  countless  num- 
ber of  such  whirling  atoms.  What  are  the  ambitions, 
the  achievements,  the  paltry  conquests  and  loves  of  those 
restless  black  insects  below  compared  with  the  serene  and 
awful  immensity  of  the  universe  that  lies  above  and 
around  their  insignificant  city  ? 

It  is  guaranteed  that  the  philosopher  will  have  these 
thoughts.  They  have  been  expressly  compiled  from  the 
philosophies  of  the  world  and  set  down  with  the  proper 
interrogation  point  at  the  end  of  them  to  represent  the 
invariable  musings  of  deep  thinkers  on  high  places. 
And  when  the  philosopher  takes  the  elevator  down  his 
inind  is  broader,  his  heart  is  at  peace,  and  his  conception 
of  the  cosmogony  of  creation  is  as  wide  as  the  buckle  of 
Orion's  summer  belt. 

But  if  your  name  happened  to  be  Daisy,  and  you 
worked  in  an  Eighth  Avenue  candy  store  and  lived  in  a 
little  cold  hall  bedroom,  five  feet  by  eight,  and  earned  $6 
per  week,  and  ate  ten-cent  lunches  and  were  nineteen 
years  old,  and  got  up  at  6.30  and  worked  till  9,  and 
never  had  studied  philosophy,  maybe  things  wouldn't 
look  that  way  to  you  from  the  top  of  a  skyscraper. 


Psyche  and  the  Pskyscraper    f      175 

Two  sighed  for  the  hand  of  Daisy,  the  unphilosophi- 
cal.  One  was  Joe,  who  kept  the  smallest  store  in  New 
York.  It  was  about  the  size  of  a  tool-box  of  the  D.  P. 
W.,  and  was  stuck  like  a  swallow's  nest  against  a  corner 
of  a  down-town  skyscraper.  Its  stock  consisted  of 
fruit,  candies,  newspapers,  song  books,  cigarettes,  and 
lemonade  in  season.  When  stern  winter  shook  his  con- 
gealed locks  and  Joe  had  to  move  himself  and  the  fruit 
inside,  there  was  exactly  room  in  the  store  for  the  pro- 
prietor, his  wares,  a  stove  the  size  of  a  vinegar  cruet, 
and  one  customer. 

Joe  was  not  of  the  nation  that  keeps  us  forever  in  a 
furore  with  fugues  and  fruit.  He  was  a  capable  Amer- 
ican youth  who  was  laying  by  money,  and  wanted  Daisy 
to  help  him  spend  it.  Three  times  he  had  asked  her. 

"  I  got  money  saved  up,  Daisy,"  was  his  love  song ; 
"  and  you  know  how  bad  I  want  you.  That  store  of 
mine  ain't  very  big,  but  — " 

"  Oh,  ain't  it?  "  would  be  the  antiphony  of  the  un- 
philosophical  one.  "  Why,  I  heard  Wanamaker's  was 
trying  to  get  you  to  sublet  part  of  your  floor  space  to 
them  for  next  year." 

Daisy  passed  Joe's  corner  every  morning  and  even- 
ing. 

"  Hello,  Two-by-Four ! "  was  her  usual  greeting. 
"  Seems  to  me  your  store  looks  emptier.  You  must  have 
sold  a  package  of  chewing  gum." 

"  Ain't  much  room  in  here,  sure,"  Joe  would  answer, 


176  Strictly  Business 

with  his  slow  grin,  "  except  for  you,  Daise.  Me  and  the 
store  are  waitin'  for  you  whenever  you'll  take  us.  Don't 
you  think  you  might  before  long?  " 

"  Store !  " —  a  fine  scorn  was  expressed  by  Daisy's  up- 
tilted  nose  — "  sardine  box !  Waitin'  for  me,  you  say  ? 
Gee !  you'd  have  to  throw  out  about  a  hundred  pounds  of 
candy  before  I  could  get  inside  of  it,  Joe." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  an  even  swap  like  that,"  said  Joe, 
complimentary. 

Daisy's  existence  was  limited  in  every  way.  She  had 
to  walk  sideways  between  the  counter  and  the  shelves  in 
the  candy  store.  In  her  own  hall  bedroom  coziness  had 
been  carried  close  to  cohesiveness.  The  walls  were  so 
near  to  one  another  that  the  paper  on  them  made  a  per- 
fect Babel  of  noise.  She  could  light  the  gas  with  one 
hand  and  close  the  door  with  the  other  without  taking 
her  eyes  off  the  reflection  of  her  brown  pompadour  in 
the  mirror.  She  had  Joe's  picture  in  a  gilt  frame  on 
the  dresser,  and  sometimes  —  but  her  next  thought  would 
always  be  of  Joe's  funny  little  store  tacked  like  a  soap 
box  to  the  corner  of  that  great  building,  and  away  would 
go  her  sentiment  in  a  breeze  of  laughter. 

Daisy's  other  suitor  followed  Joe  by  several  months. 
He  came  to  board  in  the  house  where  she  lived.  His 
name  was  Dabster,  and  he  was  a  philosopher.  Though 
young,  attainments  stood  out  upon  him  like  continental 
labels  on  a  Passaic  (N.  J.)  suit-case.  Knowledge  he  had 
kidnapped  from  cyclopedias  and  handbooks  of  useful  in- 


Psyche  and  the  P  sky  scraper          177 

formation;  but  as  for  wisdom,  when  she  passed  he  was 
left  sniffing  in  the  road  without  so  much  as  the  number 
of  her  motor  car.  He  could  and  would  tell  you  the  pro- 
portion of  water  and  muscle-making  properties  of  peas 
and  veal,  the  shortest  verse  in  the  Bible,  the  number  of 
pounds  of  shingle  nails  required  to  fasten  256  shingles 
laid  four  inches  to  the  weather,  the  population  of  Kan- 
kakee,  111.,  the  theories  of  Spinoza,  the  name  of  Mr.  H. 
McKay  Twombly's  second  hall  footman,  the  length  of 
the  Hoosac  Tunnel,  the  best  time  to  set  a  hen,  the  salary 
of  the  railway  post-office  messenger  between  Driftwood 
and  Red  Bank  Furnace,  Pa.,  and  the  number  of  bones 
in  the  foreleg  of  a  cat. 

This  weight  of  learning  was  no  handicap  to  Dabster. 
His  statistics  were  the  sprigs  of  parsley  with  which  he 
garnished  the  feast  of  small  talk  that  he  would  set  before 
you  if  he  conceived  that  to  be  your  taste.  And  again  he 
used  them  as  breastworks  in  foraging  at  the  boarding- 
house.  Firing  at  you  a  volley  of  figures  concerning  the 
weight  of  a  lineal  foot  of  bar-iron  5  x  2%  inches,  and 
the  average  annual  rainfall  at  Fort  Snelling,  Minn.,  he 
would  transfix  with  his  fork  the  best  piece  of  chicken  on 
the  dish  while  you  were  trying  to  rally  sufficiently  to ' 
ask  him  weakly  why  does  a  hen  cross  the  road. 

Thus,  brightly  armed,  and  further  equipped  with  a 
measure  of  good  looks,  of  a  hair-oily,  shopping-district- 
at-three-in-the-afternoon  kind,  it  seems  that  Joe,  of  the 
Lilliputian  emporium,  had  a  rival  worthy  of  his  steel. 


178  Strictly  "Business 

But  Joe  carried  no  steel.  There  wouldn't  have  been 
room  in  his  store  to  draw  it  if  he  had. 

One  Saturday  afternoon,  about  four  o'clock,  Daisy 
and  Mr.  Dabster  stopped  before  Joe's  booth.  Dabster 
wore  a  silk  hat,  and  —  well,  Daisy  was  a  woman,  and 
that  hat  had  no  chance  to  get  back  in  its  box  until  Joe 
had  seen  it.  A  stick  of  pineapple  chewing  gum  was  the 
ostensible  object  of  the  call.  Joe  supplied  it  through 
the  open  side  of  his  store.  He  did  not  pale  or  falter  at 
sight  of  the  hat. 

"  Mr.  Dabster's  going  to  take  me  on  top  of  the  build- 
ing to  observe  the  view,"  said  Daisy,  after  she  had  in- 
troduced her  admirers.  "  I  never  was  on  a  skyscraper. 
I  guess  it  must  be  awful  nice  and  funny  up  there." 

«H'm!"  said  Joe. 

"  The  panorama,"  said  Mr.  Dabster,  "  exposed  to  the 
gaze  from  the  top  of  a  lofty  building  is  not  only  sublime, 
but  instructive.  Miss  Daisy  has  a  decided  pleasure  in 
store  for  her." 

"  It's  windy  up  there,  too,  as  well  as  here,"  said  Joe. 
"  Are  you  dressed  warm  enough,  Daise  ?  " 

"  Sure  thing !  I'm  all  lined,"  said  Daisy,  smiling 
slyly  at  his  clouded  brow.  "  You  look  just  like  a 
mummy  in  a  case,  Joe.  Ain't  you  just  put  in  an  invoice 
of  a  pint  of  peanuts  or  another  apple?  Your  stock 
looks  awful  over-stocked." 

Daisy  giggled  at  her  favorite  joke;  and  Joe  had  to 
smile  with  her. 


"  Your  quarters  are  somewhat  limited,  Mr. —  er  — > 
er,"  remarked  Dabster,  "  in  comparison  with  the  size 
of  this  building.  I  understand  the  area  of  its  side  to  be 
about  340  by  100  feet.  That  would  make  you  occupy 
a  proportionate  space  as  if  half  of  Beloochistan  were 
placed  upon  a  territory  as  large  as  the  United  States  east 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,  with  the  Province  of  Ontario 
and  Belgium  added." 

"Is  that  so,  sport?"  said  Joe,  genially.  "You  are 
Weisenheimer  on  figures,  all  right.  How  many  square 
pounds  of  baled  hay  do  you  think  a  jackass  could  eat 
if  he  stopped  brayin'  long  enough  to  keep  still  a  minute 
and  five  eighths?  " 

A  few  minutes  later  Daisy  and  Mr.  Dabster  stepped 
from  an.  elevator  to  the  top  floor  of  the  skyscraper. 
Then  up  a  short,  steep  stairway  and  out  upon  the  roof. 
Dabster  led  her  to  the  parapet  so  she  could  look  down  at 
the  black  dots  moving  in  the  street  below. 

"  What  are  they?  "  she  asked,  trembling.  She  had 
never  before  been  on  a  height  like  this  before. 

And  then  Dabster  must  needs  play  the  philosopher  on 
the  tower,  and  conduct  her  soul  forth  to  meet  the  immen- 
sity of  space. 

"  Bipeds,"  he  said,  solemnly.  "  See  what  they  become 
even  at  the  small  elevation  of  340  feet  —  mere  crawling 
insects  going  to  and  fro  at  random." 

"  Oh,   they   ain't   anything   of  the   kind,"   exclaimed 


180  Strictly  Business 

Daisy,  suddenly  — "  they're  folks !  I  saw  an  automobile. 
Oh,  gee !  are  we  that  high  up  ?  " 

"  Walk  over  this  way,"  said  Dabster. 

He  showed  her  the  great  city  lying  like  an  orderly  ar- 
ray of  toys  far  below,  starred  here  and  there,  early  as 
it  was,  by  the  first  beacon  lights  of  the  winter  afternoon. 
And  then  the  bay  and  sea  to  the  south  and  east  vanishing 
mysteriously  into  the  sky. 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  declared  Daisy,  with  troubled  blue 
eyes.  "  Say  we  go  down." 

But  the  philosopher  was  not  to  be  denied  his  oppor- 
tunity. He  would  let  her  behold  the  grandeur  of  his 
mind,  the  half -nelson  he  had  on  the  infinite,  and  the  mem- 
ory he  had  for  statistics.  And  then  she  would  never- 
more be  content  to  buy  chewing  gum  at  the  smallest  store 
in  New  York.  And  so  he  began  to  prate  of  the  small- 
ness  of  human  affairs,  and  how  that  even  so  slight  a  re- 
moval from  earth  made  man  and  his  works  look  like  one 
tenth  part  of  a  dollar  thrice  computed.  And  that  one 
should  consider  the  sidereal  system  and  the  maxims  of 
Epictetus  and  be  comforted. 

"  You  don't  carry  me  with  you,"  said  Daisy.  "  Say,  I 
think  it's  awful  to  be  up  so  high  that  folks  look  like  fleas. 
One  of  them  we  saw  might  have  been  Joe.  Why, 
Jimmy !  we  might  as  well  be  in  New  Jersey !  Say,  I'm 
afraid  up  here !  " 

The  philosopher  smiled  fatuously. 


Psyche  and  the  P  sky  scraper          181 

"  The  earth,"  said  he,  "  is  itself  only  as  a  grain  of 
wheat  in  space.  Look  up  there." 

Daisy  gazed  upward  apprehensively.  The  short  day 
was  spent  and  the  stars  were  coming  out  above. 

"  Yonder  star,"  said  Dabster,  "  is  Venus,  the  evening 
star.  She  is  66,000,000  miles  from  the  sun." 

"  Fudge ! "  said  Daisy,  with  a  brief  flash  of  spirit, 
"  where  do  you  think  I  come  from  —  Brooklyn  ?  Susie 
Price,  in  our  store  —  her  brother  sent  her  a  ticket  to  go 
to  San  Francisco  —  that's  only  three  thousand  miles." 

The  philosopher  smiled  indulgently. 

"  Our  world,"  he  said,  "  is  91,000,000  miles  from  the 
sun.  There  are  eighteen  stars  of  the  first  magnitude 
that  are  211,000  times  further  from  us  than  the  sun  is. 
If  one  of  them  should  be  extinguished  it  would  be  three 
years  before  we  would  see  its  light  go  out.  There  are 
six  thousand  stars  of  the  sixth  magnitude.  It  takes 
thirty-six  years  for  the  light  of  one  of  them  to  reach  the 
earth.  With  an  eighteen-foot  telescope  we  can  see  43,- 
000,000  stars,  including  those  of  the  thirteenth  magni- 
tude, whose  light  takes  2,700  years  to  reach  us.  Each 
of  these  stars  — " 

"  You're  lyin',"  cried  Daisy,  angrily.  "  You're  tryin* 
to  scare  me.  And  you  have ;  I  want  to  go  down !  " 

She  stamped  her  foot. 

"  Arcturus  — "  began  the  philosopher,  soothingly,  but 
he  was  interrupted  by  a  demonstration  out  of  the  vast* 


182  Strictly  "Business 

ness  of  the  nature  that  he  was  endeavoring  to  portray 
with  his  memory  instead  of  his  heart.  For  to  the  heart- 
expounder  of  nature  the  stars  were  set  in  the  firmament 
expressly  to  give  soft  light  to  lovers  wandering  happily 
beneath  them;  and  if  you  stand  tiptoe  some  September 
night  with  your  sweetheart  on  your  arm  you  can  almost 
touch  them  with  your  hand.  Three  years  for  their  light 
to  reach  us,  indeed ! 

Out  of  the  west  leaped  a  meteor,  lighting  the  roof  of 
the  skyscraper  almost  to  midday.  Its  fiery  parabola  was 
limned  against  the  sky  toward  the  east.  It  hissed  as  it 
went,  and  Daisy  screamed. 

"  Take  me  down,"  she  cried  vehemently,  "  you  —  you 
mental  arithmetic ! " 

Dabster  got  her  to  the  elevator,  and  inside  of  it.  She 
was  wild-eyed,  and  she  shuddered  when  the  express  made 
its  debilitating  drop. 

Outside  the  revolving  door  of  the  skyscraper  the  phi- 
losopher lost  her.  She  vanished;  and  he  stood,  be- 
wildered, without  figures  or  statistics  to  aid  him. 

Joe  had  a  lull  in  trade,  and  by  squirming  among  his 
stock  succeeded  in  lighting  a  cigarette  and  getting  one 
cold  foot  against  the  attenuated  stove. 

The  door  was  burst  open,  and  Daisy,  laughing,  cry- 
ing, scattering  fruit  and  candies,  tumbled  into  his  arms. 

"  Oh,  Joe,  I've  been  up  on  the  skyscraper.  Ain't  it 
cozy  and  warm  and  homelike  in  here!  I'm  ready  for 
you,  Joe,  whenever  you  want  me." 


XV 

A  BIRD  OF  BAGDAD 

WITHOUT  doubt  much  of  the  spirit  and  genius  of 
the  Caliph  Harun  Al  Rashid  descended  to  the  Margrave 
August  Michael  von  Paulsen  Quigg. 

Quigg's  restaurant  is  in  Fourth  Avenue  —  that  street 
that  the  city  seems  to  have  forgotten  in  its  growth. 
Fourth  Avenue  —  born  and  bred  in  the  Bowery  —  stag- 
gers northward  full  of  good  resolutions. 

Where  it  crosses  Fourteenth  Street  it  struts  for  a  brief 
moment  proudly  in  the  glare  of  the  museums  and  cheap 
theatres.  It  may  yet  become  a  fit  mate  for  its  high*- 
born  sister  boulevard  to  the  west,  or  its  roaring,  polyglot, 
broad-waisted  cousin  to  the  east.  It  passes  Union 
Square;  and  here  the  hoofs  of  the  dray  horses  seem  to 
thunder  in  unison,  recalling  the  tread  of  marching  hosts 
• —  Hooray !  But  now  come  the  silent  and  terrible  moun- 
tains —  buildings  square  as  forts,  high  as  the  clouds, 
shutting  out  the  sky,  where  thousands  of  slaves  bend 
over  desks  all  day.  On  the  ground  floors  are  only  little 
fruit  shops  and  laundries  and  book  shops,  where  you  see 
copies  of  "  Littell's  Living  Age  "  and  G.  W.  M.  Reyn- 
old's novels  in  the  windows.  And  next- — poor  Fourth 

183 


184  Strictly  Business 

Avenue !  —  the  street  glides  into  a  mediaeval  solitude. 
On  each  side  are  the  shops  devoted  to  "  Antiques." 

Let  us  say  it  is  night.  Men  in  rusty  armor  stand  in 
the  windows  and  menace  the  hurrying  cars  with  raised, 
rusty  iron  gauntlets.  Hauberks  and  helms,  blunder- 
busses, Cromwellian  breastplates,  matchlocks,  creeses, 
and  the  swords  and  daggers  of  an  army  of  dead-and-gone 
gallants  gleam  dully  in  the  ghostly  light.  Here  and 
there  from  a  corner  saloon  (lit  with  Jack-o'-lanterns  or 
phosphorus),  stagger  forth  shuddering,  home-bound  cit- 
izens, nerved  by  the  tankards  within  to  their  fearsome 
journey  adown  that  eldrich  avenue  lined  with  the  blood- 
stained weapons  of  the  fighting  dead.  What  street  could 
live  inclosed  by  these  mortuary  relics,  and  trod  by  these 
spectral  citizens  in  whose  sunken  hearts  scarce  one  good 
whoop  or  tra-la-la  remained? 

Not  Fourth  Avenue.  Not  after  the  tinsel  but  enliven- 
ing glories  of  the  Little  Rialto  —  not  after  the  echoing 
drum-beats  of  Union  Square.  There  need  be  no  tears, 
ladies  and  gentlemen ;  'tis  but  the  suicide  of  a  street. 
With  a  shriek  and  a  crash  Fourth  Avenue  dives  headlong 
into  the  tunnel  at  Thirty-fourth  and  is  never  seen  again. 

Near  the  sad  scene  of  the  thoroughfare's  dissolution 
stood  the  modest  restaurant  of  Quigg.  It  stands  there 
yet  if  you  care  to  view  its  crumbling  red-brick  front,  its 
show  window  heaped  with  oranges,  tomatoes,  layer  cakes, 
pies,  canned  asparagus  —  its  papier-mache  lobster  and 
two  Maltese  kittens  asleep  on  a  bunch  of  lettuce  —  if  you 


A  Bird  of  Bagdad  185 

care  to  sit  at  one  of  the  little  tables  upon  whose  cloth  has 
been  traced  in  the  yellowest  of  coffee  stains  the  trail  of 
the  Japanese  advance  —  to  sit  there  with  one  eye  on 
your  umbrella  and  the  other  upon  the  bogus  bottle  from 
which  you  drop  the  counterfeit  sauce  foisted  upon  us  by 
the  cursed  charlatan  who  assumes  to  be  our  dear  old  lord 
and  friend,  the  "  Nobleman  in  India." 

Quigg's  title  came  through  his  mother.  One  of  her 
ancestors  was  a  Margravine  of  Saxony.  His  father  was 
a  Tammany  brave.  On  account  of  the  dilution  of  his 
heredity  he  found  that  he  could  neither  become  a  reign- 
ing potentate  nor  get  a  job  in  the  City  Hall.  So  he 
opened  a  restaurant.  He  was  a  man  full  of  thought  and 
reading.  The  business  gave  him  a  living,  though  he 
gave  it  little  attention.  One  side  of  his  house  bequeathed 
to  him  a'  poetic  and  romantic  nature.  The  other  gave 
him  the  restless  spirit  that  made  him  seek  adventure. 
By  day  he  was  Quigg,  the  restaurateur.  By  night  he 
T/as  the  Margrave  —  the  Caliph  —  the  Prince  of  Bo- 
hemia —  going  about  the  city  in  search  of  the  odd,  the 
mysterious,  the  inexplicable,  the  recondite. 

One  night  at  9,  at  which  hour  the  restaurant  closed, 
Quigg  set  forth  upon  his  quest.  There  was  a  mingling 
of  the  foreign,  the  military  and  the  artistic  in  his  appear- 
ance as  he  buttoned  his  coat  high  up  under  his  short- 
trimmed  brown  and  gray  beard  and  turned  westward 
toward  the  more  central  life  conduits  of  the  city.  In  his 
pocket  he  had  stored  an  assortment  of  cards,  written 


186  Strictly  Business 

upon,  without  which  he  never  stirred  out  of  doors.  Each 
of  those  cards  was  good  at  his  own  restaurant  for  its  face 
value.  Some  called  simply  for  a  bowl  of  soup  or  sand- 
wiches and  coffee;  others  entitled  their  bearer  to  one, 
two,  three  or  more  days  of  full  meals;  a  few  were  for 
single  regular  meals;  a  very  few  were,  in  effect,  meal 
tickets  good  for  a  week. 

Of  riches  and  power  Margrave  Quigg  had  none ;  but 
he  had  a  Caliph's  heart  —  it  may  be  forgiven  him  if  his 
head  fell  short  of  the  measure  of  Harun  Al  Rashid's. 
Perhaps  some  of  the  gold  pieces  in  Bagdad  had  put  less 
warmth  and  hope  into  the  complainants  among  the  ba- 
zaars than  had  Quigg's  beef  stew  among  the  fishermen 
and  one-eyed  calenders  of  Manhattan. 

Continuing  his  progress  in  search  of  romance  to  di- 
vest him,  or  of  distress  that  he  might  aid,  Quigg  became 
aware  of  a  fast-gathering  crowd  that  whooped  and 
fought  and  eddied  at  a  corner  of  Broadway  and  the 
crosstown  street  that  he  was  traversing.  Hurrying  to 
the  spot  he  beheld  a  young  man  of  an  exceedingly  melan- 
choly and  preoccupied  demeanor  engaged  in  the  pastime 
of  casting  silver  money  from  his  pockets  in  the  middle 
of  the  street.  With  each  motion  of  the  generous  one's 
hand  the  crowd  huddled  upon  the  falling  largesse  with 
yells  of  joy.  Traffic  was  suspended.  A  policeman  in 
the  centre  of  the  mob  stooped  often  to  the  ground  as  he 
urged  the  blockaders  to  move  on. 

The  Margrave  saw  at  a  glance  that  here  was  food  for 


A  Bird  of  Bagdad  187 

his  hunger  after  knowledge  concerning  abnormal  work- 
ings of  the  human  heart.  He  made  his  way  swiftly  to 
the  young  man's  side  and  took  his  arm.  "  Come  with 
me  at  once,"  he  said,  in  the  low  but  commanding  voice 
that  his  waiters  had  learned  to  fear. 

"  Pinched,"  remarked  the  young  man,  looking  up  at 
him  with  expressionless  eyes.  "  Pinched  by  a  painless 
dentist.  Take  me  away,  flatty,  and  give  me  gas.  Some 
lay  eggs  and  some  lay  none.  When  is  a  hen  ?  " 

Still  deeply  seized  by  some  inward  grief,  but  tractable, 
he  allowed  Quigg  to  lead  him  away  and  down  the  street 
to  a  little  park. 

There,  seated  on  a  bench,  he  upon  whom  a  corner  of 
the  great  Caliph's  mantle  has  descended,  spake  with 
kindness  and  discretion,  seeking  to  know  what  evil  had 
come  upon  the  other,  disturbing  his  soul  and  driving  him 
to  such  ill-considered  and  ruinous  waste  of  his  substance 
and  stores. 

"  I  was  doing  the  Monte  Cristo  act  as  adapted  by 
iPompton,  N.  J.,  wasn't  I?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

*'  You  were  throwing  small  coins  into  the  street  for 
the  people  to  scramble  after,"  said  the  Margrave. 

"  That's  it.  You  buy  all  the  beer  you  can  hold,  and 
then  you  throw  chicken  feed  to  —  Oh,  curse  that  word 
chicken,  and  hens,  feathers,  roosters,  eggs,  and  every- 
thing connected  with  it !  " 

"  Young  sir,"  said  the  Margrave  kindly,  but  with  dig- 
nity, "  though  I  do  not  ask  your  confidence,  I  invite  it. 


188  Strictly  Business 

I  know  the  world  and  I  know  humanity.  Man  is  my 
study,  though  I  do  not  eye  him  as  the  scientist  eyes  a 
beetle  or  as  the  philanthropist  gazes  at  the  objects  of 
his  bounty  —  through  a  veil  of  theory  and  ignorance. 
It  is  my  pleasure  and  distraction  to  interest  myself  in 
the  peculiar  and  complicated  misfortunes  that  life  in  a 
great  city  visits  upon  my  fellow-men.  You  may  be 
familiar  with  the  history  of  that  glorious  and  immortal 
ruler,  the  Caliph  Harun  Al  Rashid,  whose  wise  and  be- 
neficent excursions  among  his  people  in  the  city  of  Bag- 
dad secured  him  the  privilege  of  relieving  so  much  of 
their  distress.  In  my  humble  way  I  walk  in  his  foot- 
steps. I  seek  for  romance  and  adventure  in  city  streets 
—  not  in  ruined  castles  or  in  crumbling  palaces.  To  me 
the  greatest  marvels  of  magic  are  those  that  take  place 
in  men's  hearts  when  acted  upon  by  the  furious  and  di- 
verse forces  of  a  crowded  population.  In  your  strange 
behavior  this  evening  I  fancy  a  story  lurks.  I  read  ia 
your  act  something  deeper  than  the  wanton  wastefulness 
of  a  spendthrift.  I  observe  in  your  countenance  the  cer- 
tain traces  of  consuming  grief  or  despair.  I  repeat  — 
I  invite  your  confidence.  I  am  not  without  some  power 
to  alleviate  and  advise.  Will  you  not  trust  me?  " 

"  Gee,  how  you  talk ! "  exclaimed  the  young  man,  a 
gleam  of  admiration  supplanting  for  a  moment  the  dull 
sadness  of  his  eyes.  "  You've  got  the  Astor  Library 
skinned  to  a  synopsis  of  preceding  chapters.  I  mind 
that  old  Turk  you  speak  of.  I  read  '  The  Arabian 


A  Bird  of  Bagdad  189 

Nights '  when  I  was  a  kid.  He  was  a  kind  of  Bill  Dev- 
ery  and  Charlie  Schwab  rolled  into  one.  But,  say,  you 
might  wave  enchanted  dishrags  and  make  copper  bottles 
smoke  up  coon  giants  all  night  without  ever  touching 
me.  My  case  won't  yield  to  that  kind  of  treatment." 

"  If  I  could  hear  your  story,"  said  the  Margrave,  with 
his  lofty,  serious  smile. 

"  I'll  spiel  it  in  about  nine  words,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "  but  I  don't  think  you  can  help 
me  any.  Unless  you're  a  peach  at  guessing  it's  back  to 
the  Bosphorus  for  you  on  your  magic  linoleum." 

THE   STORY    OF    THE   YOUNG  MAN   AND   THE   HARNESS 
MAKER'S  RIDDLE 

"  I  work  in  Hildebrant's  saddle  and  harness  shop 
down  in  Grant  Street.  I've  worked  there  five  years.  I 
get  $18  a  week.  That's  enough  to  marry  on,  ain*t  it? 
Well,  I'm  not  going  to  get  married.  Old  Hildebrant  is 
one  of  these  funny  Dutchmen  —  you  know  the  kind  — •• 
always  getting  off  bum  jokes.  He's  got  about  a  million 
riddles  and  things  that  he  faked  from  Rogers  Brothers' 
great-grandfather.  Bill  Watson  works  there,  too.  Me 
and  Bill  have  to  stand  for  them  chestnuts  day  after  day. 
Why  do  we  do  it?  Well,  jobs  ain't  to  be  picked  off  every 
Anheuser  bush  *— ?  And  then  there's  Laura. 

"What?  The  old  man's  daughter.  Comes  in  the 
shop  every  day.  About  nineteen,  and  the  picture  of  the 
blonde  that  sits  on  the  palisades  of  the  Rhine  and  charms 


190  Strictly  Business 

the  clam-diggers  into  the  surf.  Hair  the  color  of  straw 
matting,  and  eyes  as  black  and  shiny  as  the  best  harness 
blacking  —  think  of  that! 

"Me?  Well,  it's  either  me  or  Bill  Watson.  She 
treats  us  both  equal.  Bill  is  all  to  the  psychopathic 
about  her ;  and  me  ?  —  well,  you  saw  me  plating  the  road- 
bed of  the  Great  Maroon  Way  with  silver  to-night.  That 
was  on  account  of  Laura.  I  was  spiflicated,  Your  High- 
ness, and  I  wot  not  of  what  I  wouldst. 

"How?  Why,  old  Hildebrant  says  to  me  and  Bill 
this  afternoon :  *  Boys,  one  riddle  have  I  for  you  ge- 
habt  haben.  A  young  man  who  cannot  riddles  ant- 
worten,  he  is  not  so  good  by  business  for  ein  family  to 
provide  —  is  not  that  —  hein  ?  '  And  he  hands  us  a 
riddle  —  a  conundrum,  some  calls  it  —  and  he  chuckles 
interiorly  and  gives  both  of  us  till  to-morrow  morning 
to  work  out  the  answer  to  it.  And  he  says  whichever  of 
us  guesses  the  repartee  end  of  it  goes  to  his  house  o' 
Wednesday  night  to  his  daughter's  birthday  party. 
And  it  means  Laura  for  whichever  of  us  goes,  for  she's 
naturally  aching  for  a  husband,  and  it's  either  me  or 
Bill  Watson,  for  old  Hildebrant  likes  us  both,  and  wants 
her  to  marry  somebody  that'll  carry  on  the  business  after 
he's  stitched  his  last  pair  of  traces. 

"  The  riddle?  Why,  it  was  this :  *  What  kind  of  a 
hen  lays  the  longest? '  Think  of  that!  What  kind  of 
a  hen  lays  the  longest?  Ain't  it  like  a  Dutchman  to  risk 
a  man's  happiness  on  a  fool  proposition  like  that? 


A  Bird  of  "Bagdad  191 

Now,  what's  the  use?  What  I  don't  know  about  hens 
would  fill  several  incubators.  You  say  you're  giving  im- 
itations of  the  old  Arab  guy  that  gave  away  —  libraries 
in  Bagdad.  Well,  now,  can  you  whistle  up  a  fairy 
that'll  solve  this  hen  query,  or  not?  " 

When  the  young  man  ceased  the  Margrave  arose  and 
paced  to  and  fro  by  the  park  bench  for  several  minutes. 
Finally  he  sat  again,  and  said,  in  grave  and  impressive 
tones : 

"  I  must  confess,  sir,  that  during  the  eight  years  that 
I  have  spent  in  search  of  adventure  and  in  relieving  dis- 
tress I  have  never  encountered  a  more  interesting  or  a 
more  perplexing  case.  I  fear  that  I  have  overlooked 
hens  in  my  researches  and  observations.  As  to  their 
habits,  their  times  and  manner  of  laying,  their  many 
varieties  and  cross-breedings,  their  span  of  life,  their  — " 

"  Oh,  don't  make  an  Ibsen  drama  of  it ! "  interrupted 
the  young  man,  flippantly.  "  Riddles  —r-  especially  old 
Hildebrant's  riddles  —  don't  have  to  be  worked  out  se- 
riously. They  are  light  themes  such  as  Sim  Ford  and 
Harry  Thurston  Peck  like  to  handle.  But,  somehow,  I 
can't  strike  just  the  answer.  Bill  Watson  may,  and  he 
may  not.  To-morrow  will  tell.  Well,  Your  Majesty, 
I'm  glad  anyhow  that  you  butted  in  and  whiled  the  time 
away.  I  guess  Mr.  Al  Rashid  himself  would  have 
bounced  back  if  one  of  his  constituents  had  conducted 
him  up  against  this  riddle.  I'll  say  good  night.  Peace 
fo'  yours,  and  what-you-may-call-its  of  Allah.'* 


192  Strictly  Business 

"The  Margrave,  with  a  gloomy  air,  held  out  his  hand* 

*'I  cannot  express  my  regret,"  he  said,  sadly. 
**  Never  before  have  I  found  myself  unable  to  assist  ia 
someway.  '  What  kind  of  a  hen  lays  the  longest?  '  It 
is  a  baffling  problem.  There  is  a  hen,  I  believe,  called 
Ihe  Plymouth  Rock  that  — " 

**  Cut  it  out,"  said  the  young  man.  "  The  Caliph  trade 
is  a  mighty  serious  one.  I  don't  suppose  you'd  even  see 
anything  funny  in  a  preacher's  defense  of  John  D« 
Rockefeller.  Well,  good  night,  Your  Nibs." 

From  habit  the  Margrave  began  to  fumble  in  his  pock- 
ets. He  drew  forth  a  card  and  handed  it  to  the  young 
man. 

"  Do  me  the  favor  to  accept  this,  anyhow,"  he  said* 
"  The  time  may  come  when  it  might  be  of  use  to  you.w 

"  Thanks ! "  said  the  young  man,  pocketing  it  care- 
lessly. "  My  name  is  Simmons." 

##*### 

Shame  to  him  who  would  hint  that  the  reader's  inter- 
est shall  altogether  pursue  the  Margrave  August  Michael 
von  Paulsen  Quigg.  I  am  indeed  astray  if  my  hand  fail 
in  keeping  the  way  where  my  peruser's  heart  would  fol- 
low. Then  let  us,  on  the  morrow,  peep  quickly  in  at 
the  door  of  Hildebrant,  harness  maker. 

Hildebrant's  200  pounds  reposed  on  a  bench^  silver- 
buckling  a  raw  leather  martingale. 

Bill  Watson  came  in  first. 

"  Veil,"  said  Hildebrant,  shaking  all  over  with  the  vile 


A  Bird  of  Bagdad  193 

conceit  of  the  joke-maker,  "  haf  you  guessed  him?  '  Vat 
kind  of  a  hen  lays  der  longest?  ' 

"  Er  —  why,  I  think  so,"  said  Bill,  rubbing  a  servile 
chin.  "  I  think  so,  Mr.  Hildebrant  —  the  one  that  lives 
the  longest —  Is  that  right?  " 

"  Nein ! "  said  Hildebrant,  shaking  his  head  violently. 
"  You  haf  not  guessed  der  answer." 

Bill  passed  on  and  donned  a  bed-tick  apron  and  bach- 
elorhood. 

In  came  the  young  man  of  the  Arabian  Night's  fiasco 
—  pale,  melancholy,  hopeless. 

"Veil,"  said  Hildebrant,  "haf  you  guessed  him? 
*  Vat  kind  of  a  hen  lays  der  longest  ?  ' 

Simmons  regarded  him  with  dull  savagery  in  his  eye. 
Should  he  curse  this  mountain  of  pernicious  humor  — 
curse  him  and  die?  Why  should —  But  there  was 
Laura. 

Dogged,  speechless,  he  thrust  his  hands  into  his  coat 
pockets  and  stood.  His  hand  encountered  the  strange 
touch  of  the  Margrave's  card.  He  drew  it  out  and 
looked  at  it,  as  men  about  to  be  hanged  look  at  a  crawl- 
ing fly.  There  was  written  on  it  in  Quigg's  bold,  round 
hand :  "  Good  for  one  roast  chicken  to  bearer." 

Simmons  looked  up  with  a  flashing  eye. 

"  A  dead  one !  "  said  he. 

"  Goot ! "  roared  Hildebrant,  rocking  the  table  with 
giant  glee.  "  Dot  is  right !  You  gome  at  mine  house 
at  8  o'clock  to  der  party." 


XVI 

COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE  SEASON 

1  HERE  are  no  more  Christmas  stories  to  write.  Fio 
tion  is  exhausted;  and  newspaper  items,  the  next  best, 
are  manufactured  by  clever  young  journalists  who  have 
married  early  and  have  an  engagingly  pessimistic  view 
of  life.  Therefore,  for  seasonable  diversion,  we  are  re- 
duced to  two  very  questionable  sources  —  facts  and 
philosophy.  We  will  begin  with  —  whichever  you 
choose  to  call  it. 

Children  are  pestilential  little  animals  with  which  we 
have  to  cope  under  a  bewildering  variety  of  conditions. 
Especially  when  childish  sorrows  overwhelm  them  are  we 
put  to  our  wits'  end.  We  exhaust  our  paltry  store  of 
consolation;  and  then  beat  them,  sobbing,  to  sleep. 
Then  we  grovel  in  the  dust  of  a  million  years,  and  ask 
God  why.  Thus  we  call  out  of  the  rat-trap.  As  for 
the  children,  no  one  understands  them  except  old  maids, 
hunchbacks,  and  shepherd  dogs. 

Now  come  the  facts  in  the  case  of  the  Rag-Doll,  the 
Tatterdemalion,  and  the  Twenty-fifth  of  December. 

On  the  tenth  of  that  month  the  Child  of  the  Million- 
aire lost  her  rag-doll.  There  were  many  servants  in  the 
Millionaire's  palace  on  the  Hudson,  and  these  ransacked 

194 


Compliments  of  the  Season  195 

the  house  and  grounds,  but  without  finding  the  lost  treas- 
ure. The  child  was  a  girl  of  five,  and  one  of  those  per- 
verse little  beasts  that  often  wound  the  sensibilities  of 
wealthy  parents  by  fixing  their  affections  upon  some 
vulgar,  inexpensive  toy  instead  of  upon  diamond-studded 
automobiles  and  pony  phaetons. 

The  Child  grieved  sorely  and  truly,  a  thing  inex- 
plicable to  the  Millionaire,  to  whom  the  rag-doll  market 
was  about  as  interesting  as  Bay  State  Gas ;  and  to  the 
Lady,  the  Child's  mother,  who  was  all  form  —  that  is, 
nearly  all,  as  you  shall  see. 

The  Child  cried  inconsolably,  and  grew  hollow-eyed, 
knock-kneed,  spindling,  and  corykilverty  in  many  other 
respects.  The  Millionaire  smiled  and  tapped  his  coffers 
confidently.  The  pick  of  the  output  of  the  French  and 
German  toymakers  was  rushed  by  special  delivery  to  the 
mansion ;  but  Rachel  refused  to  be  comforted.  She  was 
weeping  for  her  rag  child,  and  was  for  a  high  protective 
tariff  against  all  foreign  foolishness.  Then  doctors  with 
the  finest  bedside  manners  and  stop-watches  were  called 
in.  One  by  one  they  chattered  futilely  about  pepto- 
manganate  of  iron  and  sea  voyages  and  hypophosphites 
until  their  stop-watches  showed  that  Bill  Rendered  was 
under  the  wire  for  show  or  place.  Then,  as  men,  they 
advised  that  the  rag-doll  be  found  as  soon  as  possible 
and  restored  to  its  mourning  parent.  The  Child  sniffed 
at  therapeutics,  chewed  a  thumb,  and  wailed  for  her 
Betsy.  And  all  this  time  cablegrams  were  coming  from 


196  Strictly  Business 

Santa  Claus  saying  that  he  would  soon  be  here  and  en- 
^  joining  us  to  show  a  true  Christian  spirit  and  let  up  on 
the  pool-rooms  and  tontine  policies  and  platoor  systems 
long  enough  to  give  him  a  welcome.  Everywhere  the 
spirit  of  Christmas  was  diffusing  itself.  The  banks  were 
refusing  loans,  the  pawn-brokers  had  doubled  their  gang 
of  helpers,  people  bumped  your  shins  on  the  streets  with 
red  sleds,  Thomas  and  Jeremiah  bubbled  before  you  on 
the  bars  while  you  waited  on  one  foot,  holly-wreaths  of 
hospitality  were  hung  in  windows  of  the  stores,  they  who 
had  'em  were  getting  out  their  furs.  You  hardly  knew 
which  was  the  best  bet  in  balls  —  three,  high,  moth,  or 
snow.  It  was  no  time  at  which  to  lose  the  rag-doll  of 
your  heart. 

If  Doctor  Watson's  investigating  friend  had  been 
called  in  to  solve  this  mysterious  disappearance  he  might 
have  observed  on  the  Millionaire's  wall  a  copy  of  "  The 
Vampire."  That  would  have  quickly  suggested,  by  in- 
duction, "A  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair." 
"  Flip,"  a  Scotch  terrier,  next  to  the  rag-doll  in  the 
Child's  heart,  frisked  through  the  halls.  The  hank  of 
hair !  Aha !  X,  the  unf ound  quantity,  represented  the 
rag-dolL  But,  the  bone?  Well,  when  dogs  find  bones 
they  —  Done!  It  were  an  easy  and  a  fruitful  task  to 
examine  Flip's  forefeet.  Look,  Watson!  Earth  — 
dried  earth  between  the  toes.  Of  course,  the  dog  —  but 
Sherlock  was  not  there.  Therefore  it  devolves.  But 
topography  and  architecture  must  intervene. 


Compliments  of  the  Season  197 

The  Millionaire's  palace  occupied  a  lordly  space.  In 
front  of  it  was  a  lawn  close-mowed  as  a  South  Ireland 
man's  face  two  days  after  a  shave.  At  one  side  of  it, 
and  fronting  on  another  street  was  a  pleasaunce  trimmed 
to  a  leaf,  and  the  garage  and  stables.  The  Scotch  pup 
had  ravished  the  rag-doll  from  the  nursery,  dragged  it 
to  a  corner  of  the  lawn,  dug  a  hole,  and  buried  it  after 
the  manner  of  careless  undertakers.  There  you  have 
the  mystery  solved,  and  no  checks  to  write  for  the  hypo- 
dermical  wizard  or  fi'-pun  notes  to  toss  to  the  sergeant. 
Then  let's  get  down  to  the  heart  of  the  thing,  tiresome 
readers  —  the  Christmas  heart  of  the  thing. 

Fuzzy  was  drunk  —  not  riotously  or  helplessly  or 
loquaciously,  as  you  or  I  might  get,  but  decently,  appro- 
priately, and  inoffensively,  as  becomes  a  gentleman  down 
on  his  luck. 

Fuzzy  was  a  soldier  of  misfortune.  The  road,  the 
haystack,  the  park  bench,  the  kitchen  door,  the  bitter 
round  of  eleemosynary  beds-with-shower-bath-attach- 
ment,  the  petty  pickings  and  ignobly  garnered  largesse 
of  great  cities  —  these  formed  the  chapters  of  his  his- 
tory. 

Fuzzy  walked  toward  the  river,  down  the  street  that 
bounded  one  side  of  the  Millionaire's  house  and  grounds. 
He  saw  a  leg  of  Betsy,  the  lost  rag-doll,  protruding,  like 
the  clue  to  a  Lilliputian  murder  mystery,  from  its  un- 
timely grave  in  a  corner  of  the  fence.  He  dragged 
forth  the  maltreated  infant,  tucked  it  under  his  arm,  and 


198  Strictly  Business 

went  on  his  way  crooning  a  road  song  of  his  brethren 
that  no  doll  that  has  been  brought  up  to  the  sheltered 
life  should  hear.  Well  for  Betsy  that  she  had  no  ears. 
And  well  that  she  had  no  eyes  save  unseeing  circles  of 
black;  for  the  faces  of  Fuzzy  and  the  Scotch  terrier 
were  those  of  brothers,  and  the  heart  of  no  rag-doll  could 
withstand  twice  to  become  the  prey  of  such  fearsome 
monsters. 

Though  you  may  not  know  it,  Grogan's  saloon  stands 
near  the  river  and  near  the  foot  of  the  street  down  which 
Fuzzy  traveled.  In  Grogan's,  Christmas  cheer  was  al- 
ready rampant. 

Fuzzy  entered  with  his  doll.  He  fancied  that  as  a 
mummer  at  the  feast  of  Saturn  he  might  earn  a  few 
drops  from  the  wassail  cup. 

He  set  Betsy  on  the  bar  and  addressed  her  loudly 
and  humorously,  seasoning  his  speech  with  exaggerated 
compliments  and  endearments,  as  one  entertaining  his 
lady  friend.  The  loafers  and  bibbers  around  caught  the 
farce  of  it,  and  roared.  The  bartender  gave  Fuzzy  a 
drink.  Oh,  many  of  us  carry  rag-dolls. 

"  One  for  the  lady  ?  "  suggested  Fuzzy  impudently, 
and  tucked  another  contribution  to  Art  beneath  his 
waistcoat. 

He  began  to  see  possibilities  in  Betsy.  His  first-night 
had  been  a  success.  Visions  of  a  vaudeville  circuit  about 
town  dawned  upon  him. 

In  a  group  near  the  stove  sat  "  Pigeon  "  McCarthy, 


Compliments  of  the  Season  199 

Black  Riley,  and  "  One-ear  "  Mike,  well  and  unfavorably 
known  in  the  tough  shoestring  district  that  blackened  the 
left  bank  of  the  river.  They  passed  a  newspaper  back 
and  forth  among  themselves.  The  item  that  each  solid 
and  blunt  forefinger  pointed  out  was  an  advertisement 
headed  "  One  Hundred  Dollars  Reward."  To  earn  it 
one  must  return  the  rag-doll  lost,  strayed,  or  stolen  from 
the  Millionaire's  mansion.  It  seemed  that  grief  still 
ravaged,  unchecked,  in  the  bosom  of  the  too  faithful 
Child.  Flip,  the  terrier,  capered  and  shook  his  absurd 
whisker  before  her,  powerless  to  distract.  She  wailed 
for  her  Betsy  in  the  faces  of  walking,  talking,  mama- 
ing,  and  eye-closing  French  Mabelles  and  Violettes.  The 
advertisement  was  a  last  resort. 

Black  Riley  came  from  behind  the  stove  and  ap- 
proached Fuzzy  in  his  one-sided  parabolic  way. 

The  Christmas  mummer,  flushed  with  success,  had 
tucked  Betsy  under  his  arm,  and  was  about  to  depart  to 
the  filling  of  impromptu  dates  elsewhere. 

"  Say,  'Bo,"  said  Black  Riley  to  him,  "  where  did  you 
cop  out  dat  doll  ?  " 

"  This  doll  ?  "  asked  Fuzzy,  touching  Betsy  with  his 
forefinger  to  be  sure  that  she  was  the  one  referred  to. 
"  Why,  this  doll  was  presented  to  me  by  the  Emperor 
of  Beloochistan.  I  have  seven  hundred  others  in  my 
country  home  in  Newport.  This  doll  — " 

"  Cheese  the  funny  business,"  said  Riley.  "  You 
swiped  it  or  picked  it  up  at  de  house  on  de  hill  where  — • 


#00  Strictly  Business 

but  never  mind  dat.  You  want  to  take  fifty  cents  f of 
de  rags,  and  take  it  quick.  Me  brother's  kid  at  home 
might  be  wantin'  to  play  wid  it.  Hey  —  what?  " 

He  produced  the  coin. 

Fuzzy  laughed  a  gurgling,  insolent,  alcoholic  laugh  in 
his  face.  Go  to  the  office  of  Sarah  Bernhardt's  manager 
and  propose  to  him  that  she  be  released  from  a  night's 
performance  to  entertain  the  Tackytown  Lyceum  and 
Literary  Coterie.  You  will  hear  the  duplicate  of  Fuz- 
zy's  laugh. 

Black  Riley  gauged  Fuzzy  quickly  with  his  blueberry 
eye  as  a  wrestler  does.  His  hand  was  itching  to  play 
the  Roman  and  wrest  the  rag  Sabine  from  the  extempo^ 
raneous  merry-andrew  who  was  entertaining  an  angei 
unaware.  But  he  refrained.  Fuzzy  was  fat  and  solid 
and  big.  Three  inches  of  well-nourished  corporeity,  de- 
fended from  the  winter  winds  by  dingy  linen,  intervened 
between  his  vest  and  trousers.  Countless  small,  circular 
wrinkles  running  around  his  coat-sleeves  and  knees  guar- 
anteed the  quality  of  his  bone  and  muscle.  His  small, 
blue  eyes,  bathed  in  the  moisture  of  altruism  and  woozi- 
ness,  looked  upon  you  kindly,  yet  without  abashment. 
He  was  whiskerly,  whiskyly,  fleshily  formidable.  So, 
Black  Riley  temporized. 

"  Wot'll  you  take  for  it,  den  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Money,"  said  Fuzzy,  with  husky  firmness,  "  cannot 
buy  her." 

He  was  intoxicated  with  the  artist's  first  sweet  cup  of 


Compliments  of  the  Season  201 

attainment.  To  set  a  faded-blue,  earth-stained  rag-doll 
on  a  bar,  to  hold  mimic  converse  with  it,  and  to  find  his 
heart  leaping  with  the  sense  of  plaudits  earned  and  his 
throat  scorching  with  free  libations  poured  in  his  honor 
—  could  base  coin  buy  him  from  such  achievements? 
You  will  perceive  that  Fuzzy  had  the  temperament. 

Fuzzy  walked  out  with  the  gait  of  a  trained  sea-lion  in 
search  of  other  cafes  to  conquer. 

Though  the  dusk  of  twilight  was  hardly  yet  apparent, 
lights  were  beginning  to  spangle  the  city  like  pop-corn 
bursting  in  a  deep  skillet.  Christmas  Eve,  impatiently 
expected,  was  peeping  over  the  brink  of  the  hour.  Mil- 
lions had  prepared  for  its  celebration.  Towns  would  be 
painted  red.  You,  yourself,  have  heard  the  horns  and 
dodged  the  capers  of  the  Saturnalians. 

"  Pigeon  "  McCarthy,  Black  Riley,  and  "  One-ear  " 
Mike  held  a  hasty  converse  outside  Grogan's.  They 
were  narrow-chested,  pallid  striplings,  not  fighters  in  the 
open,  but  more  dangerous  in  their  ways  of  warfare  than 
the  most  terrible  of  Turks.  Fuzzy,  in  a  pitched  battle, 
could  have  eaten  the  three  of  them.  In  a  go-as-you- 
please  encounter  he  was  already  doomed. 

They  overtook  him  just  as  he  and  Betsy  were  enter- 
ing Costigan's  Casino.  They  deflected  him,  and  shoved 
the  newspaper  under  his  nose.  Fuzzy  could  read  — 
and  more. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  you  are  certainly  damn  true 
friends.  Give  me  a  week  to  think  it  over." 


202  Strictly  Business 

The  soul  of  a  real  artist  is  quenched  with  difficulty. 

The  boys  carefully  pointed  out  to  him  that  advertise- 
ments were  soulless,  and  that  the  deficiencies  of  the  day 
might  not  be  supplied  by  the  morrow. 

"  A  cool  hundred,"  said  Fuzzy  thoughtfully  and  mush- 
ily. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  you  are  true  friends.  I'll  go  up 
and  claim  the  reward.  The  show  business  is  not  what  it 
used  to  be." 

Night  was  falling  more  surely.  The  three  tagged 
at  his  sides  to  the  foot  of  the  rise  on  which  stood  the 
Millionaire's  house.  There  Fuzzy  turned  upon  them 
acrimoniously. 

"  You  are  a  pack  of  putty-faced  beagle-hounds,"  he 
roared.  "  Go  away." 

They  went  away  —  a  little  way. 

In  "  Pigeon "  McCarthy's  pocket  was  a  section  of 
one-inch  gas-pipe  eight  inches  long.  In  one  end  of  it 
and  in  the  middle  of  it  was  a  lead  plug.  One-half  of  it 
was  packed  tight  with  solder.  Black  Riley  carried  a 
slung-shot,  being  a  conventional  thug.  "  One-ear " 
Mike  relied  upon  a  pair  of  brass  knucks  —  an  heirloom 
in  the  family. 

"  Why  fetch  and  carry,"  said  Black  Riley,  "  when 
some  one  will  do  it  for  ye?  Let  him  bring  it  out  to  us. 
Hey  — what?" 

"  We  can  chuck  him  in  the  river,"  said  "  Pigeon  * 
McCarthy,  "  with  a  stone  tied  to  his  feet.'* 


Compliments  of  the  Season  203 

"  Youse  guys  make  me  tired,"  said  "  One-ear  "  Mike 
sadly.  "Ain't  progress  ever  appealed  to  none  of  yez? 
Sprinkle  a  little  gasoline  on  'im,  and  drop  'im  on  the 
Drive  —  well?" 

Fuzzy  entered  the  Millionaire's  gate  and  zigzagged 
toward  the  softly  glowing  entrance  of  the  mansion. 
The  three  goblins  came  up  to  the  gate  and  lingered  — 
one  on  each  side  of  it,  one  beyond  the  roadway.  They 
fingered  their  cold  metal  and  leather,  confident. 

Fuzzy  rang  the  door-bell,  smiling  foolishly  and 
dreamily.  An  atavistic  instinct  prompted  him  to  reach 
for  the  button  of  his  right  glove.  But  he  wore  no 
gloves ;  so  his  left  hand  dropped,  embarrassed. 

The  particular  menial  whose  duty  it  was  to  open 
doors  to.  silks  and  laces  shied  at  first  sight  of  Fuzzy. 
But  a  second  glance  took  in  his  passport,  his  card  of 
admission,  his  surety  of  welcome  —  the  lost  rag-doll  of 
the  daughter  of  the  house  dangling  under  his  arm. 

Fuzzy  was  admitted  into  a  great  hall,  dim  with  the 
glow  from  unseen  lights.  The  hireling  went  away  and 
returned  with  a  maid  and  the  Child.  The  doll  was  re^ 
stored  to  the  mourning  one.  She  clasped  her  lost  dar- 
ling to  her  breast ;  and  then,  with  the  inordinate  selfish- 
ness and  candor  of  childhood,  stamped  her  foot  and 
whined  hatred  and  fear  of  the  odious  being  who  had 
rescued  her  from  the  depths  of  sorrow  and  despair. 
Fuzzy  wriggled  himself  into  an  ingratiatory  attitude 
and  essayed  the  idiotic  smile  and  blattering  small  talk 


204  Strictly  Business 

that  is  supposed  to  charm  the  budding  intellect  of  the 
young.  The  Child  bawled,  and  was  dragged  away, 
hugging  her  Betsy  close. 

There  came  the  Secretary,  pale,  poised,  polished, 
gliding  in  pumps,  and  worshipping  pomp  and  ceremony. 
He  counted  out  into  Fuzzy's  hand  ten  ten-dollar  bills ; 
then  dropped  his  eye  upon  the  door,  transferred  it  to 
James,  its  custodian,  indicated  the  obnoxious  earner  of 
the  reward  with  the  other,  and  allowed  his  pumps  to 
waft  him  away  to  secretarial  regions. 

James  gathered  Fuzzy  with  his  own  commanding 
optic  and  swept  him  as  far  as  the  front  door. 

When  the  money  touched  Fuzzy's  dingy  palm  his 
first  instinct  was  to  take  to  his  heels;  but  a  second 
thought  restrained  him  from  that  blunder  of  etiquette. 
It  was  his ;  it  had  been  given  him.  It  —  and,  oh,  what 
an  elysium  it  opened  to  the  gaze  of  his  mind's  eye !  He 
had  tumbled  to  the  foot  of  the  ladder;  he  was  hungry, 
homeless,  friendless,  ragged,  cold,  drifting;  and  he  held 
in  his  hand  the  key  to  a  paradise  of  the  mud-honey  that 
he  craved.  The  fairy  doll  had  waved  a  wand  with  her 
rag-stuffed  hand ;  and  now  wherever  he  might  go  the  en- 
chanted palaces  with  shining  foot-rests  and  magic  red 
fluids  in  gleaming  glassware  would  be  open  to  him. 

He  followed  James  to  the  door. 

He  paused  there  as  the  flunky  drew  open  the  great 
mahogany  portal  for  him  to  pass  into  the  vestibule. 

Beyond  the  wrought-iron  gates  in  the  dark  highway 


Compliments  of  the  Season  205 

Black  Riley  and  his  two  pals  casually  strolled,  fingering 
under  their  coats  the  inevitably  fatal  weapons  that  were 
to  make  the  reward  of  the  rag-doll  theirs. 

Fuzzy  stopped  at  the  Millionaire's  door  and  be- 
thought himself.  Like  little  sprigs  of  mistletoe  on  a 
dead  tree,  certain  living  green  thoughts  and  memories 
began  to  decorate  his  confused  mind.  He  was  quite 
drunk,  mind  you,  and  the  present  was  beginning  to 
fade.  Those  wreaths  and  festoons  of  holly  with  their 
scarlet  berries  making  the  great  hall  gay  —  where  had 
he  seen  such  things  before?  Somewhere  he  had  known 
polished  floors  and  odors  of  fresh  flowers  in  winter,  and 
—  and  some  one  was  singing  a  song  in  the  house  that  he 
thought  he  had  heard  before.  Some  one  singing  and 
playing  a  harp.  Of  course,  it  was  Christmas  —  Fuzzy 
thought  he  must  have  been  pretty  drunk  to  have  over- 
looked that. 

And  then  he  went  out  of  the  present,  and  there  came 
back  to  him  out  of  some  impossible,  vanished,  and  ir- 
revocable past  a  little,  pure-white,  transient,  forgotten 
ghost  —  the  spirit  of  noblesse  oblige.  Upon  a  gentle- 
man certain  things  devolve. 

James  opened  the  outer  door.  A  stream  of  light 
went  down  the  graveled  walk  to  the  iron  gate.  Black 
Riley,  McCarthy,  and  "  One-ear  "  Mike  saw,  and  care- 
lessly drew  their  sinister  cordon  closer  about  the  gate. 

With  a  more  imperious  gesture  than  James's  master 
had  ever  used  or  could  ever  use,  Fuzzy  compelled  the 


206  Strictly  Business 

menial  to  close  the  door.  Upon  a  gentleman  certain 
things  devolve.  Especially  at  the  Christmas  season. 

"  It  is  cust  —  customary,"  he  said  to  James,  the  flus- 
tered, "  when  a  gentleman  calls  on  Christmas  Eve  to 
pass  the  compliments  of  the  season  with  the  lady  of  the 
house.  You  und'stand?  I  shall  not  move  shtep  till  I 
pass  compl'ments  season  with  lady  the  house.  Und'- 
stand?" 

There  was  an  argument.  James  lost.  Fuzzy  raised 
his  voice  and  sent  it  through  the  house  unpleasantly. 
I  did  not  say  he  was  a  gentleman.  He  was  simply  a 
tramp  being  visited  by  a  ghost. 

A  sterling  silver  bell  rang.  James  went  back  to  an- 
swer it,  leaving  Fuzzy  in  the  hall.  James  explained 
somewhere  to  some  one. 

Then  he  came  and  conducted  Fuzzy  into  the  library. 

The  lady  entered  a  moment  later.  She  was  more 
beautiful  and  holy  than  any  picture  that  Fuzzy  had 
seen.  She  smiled,  and  said  something  about  a  doll. 
Fuzzy  didn't  understand  that;  he  remembered  nothing 
about  a  doll. 

A  footman  brought  in  two  small  glasses  of  sparkling 
wine  on  a  stamped  sterling-silver  waiter.  The  Lady 
took  one.  The  other  was  handed  to  Fuzzy. 

As  his  fingers  closed  on  the  slender  glass  stem  his  dis- 
abilities dropped  from  him  for  one  brief  moment.  He 
straightened  himself;  and  Time,  so  disobliging  to  most 
of  us,  turned  backward  to  accommodate  Fuzzy. 


Compliments  of  the  Season  207 

Forgotten  Christmas  ghosts  whiter  than  the  false 
beards  of  the  most  opulent  Kris  Kringle  were  rising  in 
the  fumes  of  Grogan's  whisky.  What  had  the  Million- 
aire's mansion  to  do  with  a  long,  wainscoted  Virginia 
hall,  where  the  riders  were  grouped  around  a  silver 
punch-bowl,  drinking  the  ancient  toast  of  the  House? 
And  why  should  the  patter  of  the  cab  horses'  hoofs  on 
the  frozen  street  be  in  any  wise  related  to  the  sound  of 
the  saddled  hunters  stamping  under  the  shelter  of  the 
west  veranda  ?  And  what  had  Fuzzy  to  do  with  any  of 

it? 

The  Lady,  looking  at  him  over  her  glass,  let  her  con- 
descending smile  fade  away  like  a  false  dawn.  Her 
eyes  turned  serious.  She  saw  something  beneath  the 
rags  and-  Scotch  terrier  whiskers  that  she  did  not  under- 
stand. But  it  did  not  matter. 

Fuzzy  lifted  his  glass  and  smiled  vacantly. 

"  P-pardon,  lady,"  he  said,  "  but  couldn't  leave  with- 
out exchangin'  comp'ments  sheason  with  lady  th'  house. 
'Gainst  princ'ples  gen'leman  do  sho." 

And  then  he  began  the  ancient  salutation  that  was  a 
tradition  in  the  House  when  men  wore  lace  ruffles  and 
powder. 

"  The  blessings  of  another  year  — " 

Fuzzy 's  memory  failed  him.     The  Lady  prompted; 

"  —  Be  upon  this  hearth." 

"  —  The  guest  — "  stammered  Fuzzy. 


208  Strictly  Business 

"  —  And  upon  her  who  — "  continued  the  Lady,  with 
a  leading  smile. 

"  Oh,  cut  it  out,"  said  Fuzzy,  ill-manneredly.  "  I 
can't  remember.  Drink  hearty." 

Fuzzy  had  shot  his  arrow.  They  drank.  The  Lady 
smiled  again  the  smile  of  her  caste.  James  enveloped 
Fuzzy  and  re-conducted  him  toward  the  front  door. 
The  harp  music  still  softly  drifted  through  the  house. 

Outside,  Black  Riley  breathed  on  his  cold  hands  and 
hugged  the  gate. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  Lady  to  herself,  musing,  "  who 
i — but  there  were  so  many  who  came.  I  wonder 
whether  memory  is  a  curse  or  a  blessing  to  them  after 
they  have  fallen  so  low." 

Fuzzy  and  his  escort  were  nearly  at  the  door.  The 
Lady  called :  "  James !  " 

James  stalked  back  obsequiously,  leaving  Fuzzy  wait- 
ing unsteadily,  with  his  brief  spark  of  the  divine  fire 
gone. 

Outside,  Black  Riley  stamped  his  cold  feet  and  got  a 
firmer  grip  on  his  section  of  gas-pipe. 

"  You  will  conduct  this  gentleman,"  said  the  Lady, 
"  downstairs.  Then  tell  Louis  to  get  out  the  Mercedes 
and  take  him  to  whatever  place  he  wishes  to  go." 


xvn 

A  NIGHT  IN  NEW  ARABIA 

THE  great  city  of  Bagdad-on-the-Subway  is  caliph- 
ridden.  Its  palaces,  bazaars,  khans,  and  byways  are 
thronged  with  Al  Rashids  in  divers  disguises,  seeking 
diversion  and  victims  for  their  unbridled  generosity. 
You  can  scarcely  find  a  poor  beggar  whom  they  are  will- 
ing to  let  enjoy  his  spoils  unsuc cored,  nor  a  wrecked 
unfortunate  upon  whom  they  will  not  reshower  the 
means  of  fresh  misfortune.  You  will  hardly  find  any- 
where a  hungry  one  who  has  not  had  the  opportunity  to 
tighten  his  belt  in  gift  libraries,  nor  a  poor  pundit  who 
has  not  blushed  at  the  holiday  basket  of  celery-crowned 
turkey  forced  resoundingly  through  his  door  by  the 
eleemosynary  press. 

So  then,  fearfully  through  the  Harun-haunted  streets 
creep  the  one-eyed  calenders,  the  Little  Hunchback  and 
the  Barber's  Sixth  Brother,  hoping  to  escape  the  minis- 
trations of  the  roving  horde  of  caliphoid  sultans. 

Entertainment  for  many  Arabian  nights  might  be  had 
from  the  histories  of  those  who  have  escaped  the  largesse 
of  the  army  of  Commanders  of  the  Faithful.  Until 

dawn  you  might  sit  on  the  enchanted  rug  and  listen  to 

209 


210  Strictly  Business 

such  stories  as  are  told  of  the  powerful  genie  Roc-Ef~ 
El-Er  who  sent  the  Forty  Thieves  to  soak  up  the  oil 
plant  of  AH  Baba;  of  the  good  Caliph  Kar-Neg-Ghe, 
who  gave  away  palaces ;  of  the  Seven  Voyages  of  Sail- 
bad,  the  Sinner,  who  frequented  wooden  excursion 
steamers  among  the  islands ;  of  the  Fisherman  and  the 
Bottle ;  of  the  Barmecides'  Boarding  house ;  of  Alad- 
din's rise  to  wealth  by  means  of  his  Wonderful  Gas- 
meter. 

But  now,  there  being  ten  sultans  to  one  Sheherazade, 
she  is  held  too  valuable  to  be  in  fear  of  the  bowstring. 
In  consequence  the  art  of  narrative  languishes.  And, 
as  the  lesser  caliphs  are  hunting  the  happy  poor  and 
the  resigned  unfortunate  from  cover  to  cover  in  order 
to  heap  upon  them  strange  mercies  and  mysterious  bene- 
fits, too  often  comes  the  report  from  Arabian  head- 
quarters that  the  captive  refused  "  to  talk." 

This  reticence,  then,  in  the  actors  who  perform  the 
sad  comedies  of  their  philanthropy-scourged  world, 
must,  in  a  degree,  account  for  the  shortcomings  of  this 
painfully  gleaned  tale,  which  shall  be  called 

THE    STORY    OF    THE    CALIPH    WHO    ALLEVIATED    HIS 
CONSCIENCE 

Old  Jacob  Spraggins  mixed  for  himself  some  Scotch 
and  lithia  water  at  his  $1,200  oak  sideboard.  Inspira- 
tion must  have  resulted  from  its  imbibition,  for  im* 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  211 

mediately  afterward  he  struck  the  quartered  oak  soundly 
with  his  fist  and  shouted  to  the  empty  dining  room : 

"  By  the  coke  ovens  of  hell,  it  must  be  that  ten  thou- 
sand dollars !  If  I  can  get  that  squared,  it'll  do  the 
trick." 

Thus,  by  the  commonest  artifice  of  the  trade,  having 
gained  your  interest,  the  action  of  the  story  will  now 
be  suspended,  leaving  you  grumpily  to  consider  a  sort 
of  dull  biography  beginning  fifteen  years  before. 

When  old  Jacob  was  young  Jacob  he  was  a  breaker 
boy  in  a  Pennsylvania  coal  mine.  I  don't  know  what  a 
breaker  boy  is ;  but  his  occupation  seems  to  be  standing 
by  a  coal  dump  with  a  wan  look  and  a  dinner-pail  to 
have  his  picture  taken  for  magazine  articles.  Anyhow, 
Jacob  was  one.  But,  instead  of  dying  of  overwork  at 
nine,  and  leaving  his  helpless  parents  and  brothers  at 
the  mercy  of  the  union  strikers'  reserve  fund,  he  hitched 
up  his  galluses,  put  a  dollar  or  two  in  a  side  proposi- 
tion now  and  then,  and  at  forty-five  was  worth 
$20,000,000. 

There  now !  it's  over.  Hardly  had  time  to  yawn,  did 
you  ?  I've  seen  biographies  that  —  but  let  us  dissemble. 

I  want  you  to  consider  Jacob  Spraggins,  Esq.,  after 
he  had  arrived  at  the  seventh  stage  of  his  career.  The 
stages  meant  are,  first,  humble  origin ;  second,  deserved 
promotion ;  third,  stockholder ;  fourth,  capitalist ;  fifth, 
trust  magnate ;  sixth,  rich  malefactor ;  seventh,  caliph ; 


212  Strictly  Business 

eighth,  x.  The  eighth  stage  shall  be  left  to  the  higher 
mathematics. 

At  fifty-five  Jacob  retired  from  active  business.  The 
income  of  a  czar  was  still  rolling  in  on  him  from  coal, 
iron,  real  estate,  oil,  railroads,  manufactories,  and  cor- 
porations, but  none  of  it  touched  Jacob's  hands  in  a  raw 
state.  It  was  a  sterilized  increment,  carefully  cleaned 
and  dusted  and  fumigated  until  it  arrived  at  its  ultimate 
stage  of  untainted,  spotless  checks  in  the  white  fingers 
of  his  private  secretary.  Jacob  built  a  three-million- 
dollar  palace  on  a  corner  lot  fronting  on  Nabob  Avenue, 
city  of  New  Bagdad,  and  began  to  feel  the  mantle  of 
the  late  H.  A.  Rashid  descending  upon  him.  Event- 
ually Jacob  slipped  the  mantle  under  his  collar,  tied  it 
in  a  neat  four-in-hand,  and  became  a  licensed  harrier 
of  our  Mesopotamian  proletariat. 

When  a  man's  income  becomes  so  large  that  the 
butcher  actually  sends  him  the  kind  of  steak  he  orders, 
he  begins  to  think  about  his  soul's  salvation.  Now,  the 
various  stages  or  classes  of  rich  men  must  not  be  for- 
gotten. The  capitalist  can  tell  you  to  a  dollar  the 
amount  of  his  wealth.  The  trust  magnate  "  estimates  " 
it.  The  rich  malefactor  hands  you  a  cigar  and  denies 
that  he  has  bought  the  P.  D.  &  Q.  The  caliph  merely 
smiles  and  talks  about  Hammerstein  and  the  musical 
lasses.  There  is  a  record  of  tremendous  altercation  at 
breakfast  in  a  "  Where-to-Dine-Well "  tavern  between  a 
magnate  and  his  wife,  the  rift  within  the  loot  being  that 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  213 

the  wife  calculated  their  fortune  at  a  figure  $3,000,000 
higher  than  did  her  future  divorce.  Oh,  well,  I,  my- 
self, heard  a  similar  quarrel  between  a  man  and  his 
wife  because  he  found  fifty  cents  less  in  his  pockets 
than  he  thought  he  had.  After  all,  we  are  all  human 
—  Count  Tolstoi,  R.  Fitzsimmons,  Peter  Pan,  and  the 
rest  of  us. 

Don't  lose  heart  because  the  story  seems  to  be  degen- 
erating into  a  sort  of  moral  essay  for  intellectual 
readers. 

There  will  be  dialogue  and  stage  business  pretty  soon. 

When  Jacob  first  began  to  compare  the  eyes  of 
needles  with  the  camels  in  the  Zoo  he  decided  upon 
organized  charity.  He  had  his  secretary  send  a  check 
for  one  million  to  the  Universal  Benevolent  Association 
of  the  Globe.  You  may  have  looked  down  through  a 
grating  in  front  of  a  decayed  warehouse  for  a  nickel 
that  you  had  dropped  through.  But  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  The  Association  acknowledged  receipt 
of  his  favor  of  the  24th  ult.  with  enclosure  as  stated. 
Separated  by  a  double  line,  but  still  mighty  close  to 
the  matter  under  the  caption  of  "  Oddities  of  the  Day's 
News  "  in  an  evening  paper,  Jacob  Spraggins  read  that 
one  "  Jasper  Spargyous  "  had  "  donated  $100,000  to 
the  U.  B.  A.  of  G."  A  camel  may  have  a  stomach  for 
each  day  in  the  week ;  but  I  dare  not  venture  to  accord 
him  whiskers,  for  fear  of  the  Great  Displeasure  at 
Washington;  but  if  he  have  whiskers,  surely  not  one 


214  Strictly  Business 

of  them  will  seem  to  have  been  inserted  in  the  eye  of  a 
needle  by  that  effort  of  that  rich  man  to  enter  the  K. 
of  H.  The  right  is  reserved  to  reject  any  and  all  bids; 
signed,  S.  Peter,  secretary  and  gatekeeper. 

Next,  Jacob  selected  the  best  endowed  college  he 
could  scare  up  and  presented  it  with  a  $200,000  labora- 
tory. The  college  did  not  maintain  a  scientific  course, 
but  it  accepted  the  money  and  built  an  elaborate  lava- 
tory instead,  which  was  no  diversion  of  funds  so  far  as 
Jacob  ever  discovered. 

The  faculty  met  and  invited  Jacob  to  come  over  and 
take  his  ABC  degree.  Before  sending  the  invitation 
they  smiled,  cut  out  the  C,  added  the  proper  punctua- 
tion marks,  and  all  was  well. 

While  walking  on  the  campus  before  being  capped 
and  gowned,  Jacob  saw  two  professors  strolling  nearby. 
Their  voices,  long  adapted  to  indoor  acoustics,  unde- 
signedly  reached  his  ear. 

"  There  goes  the  latest  chevalier  d' Industrie,"  said 
one  of  them,  "  to  buy  a  sleeping  powder  from  us.  He 
gets  his  degree  to-morrow." 

"  In  foro  conscientice"  said  the  other.  "  Let's  'eave 
'arf  a  brick  at  'im." 

Jacob  ignored  the  Latin,  but  the  brick  pleasantry 
was  not  too  hard  for  him.  There  was  no  mandragora 
in  the  honorary  draught  of  learning  that  he  had  bought. 
That  was  before  the  passage  of  the  Pure  Food  and 
Drugs  Act. 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  215 

Jacob  wearied  of  philanthropy  on  a  large  scale. 

"  If  I  could  see  folks  made  happier,"  he  said  to  him- 
self — "  If  I  could  see  'em  myself  and  hear  'em  ex- 
press their  gratitude  for  what  I  done  for  'em  it  would 
make  me  feel  better.  This  donatin'  funds  to  institu- 
tions and  societies  is  about  as  satisfactory  as  dropping 
money  into  a  broken  slot  machine." 

So  Jacob  followed  his  nose,  which  led  him  through 
unswept  streets  to  the  homes  of  the  poorest. 

"  The  very  thing !  "  said  Jacob.  "  I  will  charter  two 
river  steamboats,  pack  them  full  of  these  unfortunate 
children  and  —  say  ten  thousand  dolls  and  drums  and 
a  thousand  freezers  of  ice  cream,  and  give  them  a  de- 
lightful outing  up  the  Sound.  The  sea  breezes  on  that 
trip  ought  to  blow  the  taint  off  some  of  this  money 
that  keeps  coming  in  faster  than  I  can  work  it  off  my 
mind." 

Jacob  must  have  leaked  some  of  his  benevolent  in- 
tentions, for  an  immense  person  with  a  bald  face  and  a 
mouth  that  looked  as  if  it  ought  to  have  a  "  Drop  Let- 
ters Here  "  sign  over  it  hooked  a  finger  around  him  and 
set  him  in  a  space  between  a  barber's  pole  and  a  stack 
of  ash  cans.  Words  came  out  of  the  post-office  slit  — 
smooth,  husky  words  with  gloves  on  3em,  but  sounding 
as  if  they  might  turn  to  bare  knuckles  any  moment. 

"  Say,  Sport,  do  you  know  where  you  are  at?  Well, 
dis  is  Mike  O'Grady 's  district  you're  buttin'  into  —  see  ? 
Mike's  got  de  stomach-ache  privilege  for  every  kid  in 


216  Strictly  Business 

\ 

dis  neighborhood  —  see?     And  if  dere's  any  picnics  or 

red  balloons  to  be  dealt  out  here,  Mike's  money  pays 
for  'em  —  see?  Don't  you  butt  in,  or  something'll  be 

handed  to  you.     Youse  d settlers  and  reformers 

with  your  social  ologies  and  your  millionaire  detectives 
have  got  dis  district  in  a  hell  of  a  fix,  anyhow.  With 
your  college  students  and  professors  rough-housing  de 
soda-water  stands  and  dem  rubber-neck  coaches  fillin'  de 
streets,  de  folks  down  here  are  'fraid  to  go  out  of  de 
houses.  Now,  you  leave  'em  to  Mike.  Dey  belongs  to 
him,  and  he  knows  how  to  handle  'em.  Keep  on  your 
own  side  of  de  town.  Are  you  some  wiser  now,  uncle, 
or  do  you  want  to  scrap  wit'  Mike  O'Grady  for  de 
Santa  Claus  belt  in  dis  district  ?  " 

Clearly,  that  spot  in  the  moral  vineyard  was  pre- 
empted. So  Caliph  Spraggins  menaced  no  more  the 
people  in  the  bazaars  of  the  East  Side.  To  keep  down 
his  growing  surplus  he  doubled  his  donations  to  or- 
ganized charity,  presented  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  of  his  native 
town  with  a  $10,000  collection  of  butterflies,  and  sent 
a  check  to  the  famine  sufferers  in  China  big  enough  to 
buy  new  emerald  eyes  and  diamond-filled  teeth  for  all 
their  gods.  But  none  of  these  charitable  acts  seemed 
to  bring  peace  to  the  caliph's  heart.  He  tried  to  get 
a  personal  note  into  his  benefactions  by  tipping  bell- 
boys and  waiters  $10  and  $20  bills.  He  got  well 
snickered  at  and  derided  for  that  by  the  minions  who 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  217 

with  respect  gratuities  commensurate  to  the  sery- 
ice  performed.  He  sought  out  an  ambitious  and 
talented  but  poor  young  woman,  and  bought  for  her  the 
star  part  in  a  new  comedy.  He  might  have  gotten  rid 
of  $50,000  more  of  his  cumbersome  money  in  this  phi- 
lanthropy if  he  had  not  neglected  to  write  letters  to  her. 
But  she  lost  the  suit  for  lack  of  evidence,  while  his 
capital  still  kept  piling  up,  and  his  optikos  needleorum 
camelibiis  —  or  rich  man's  disease  —  was  unrelieved. 

In  Caliph  Spraggins's  $3,000,000  home  lived  his 
sister  Henrietta,  who  used  to  cook  for  the  coal  miners  in 
a  twenty-five-cent  eating  house  in  Coketown,  Pa.,  and 
who  now  would  have  offered  John  Mitchell  only  two 
fingers  of  her  hand  to  shake.  And  his  daughter  Celia, 
nineteen,  back  from  boarding-school  and  from  being 
polished  off  by  private  instructors  in  the  restaurant 
languages  and  those  etudes  and  things. 

Celia  is  the  heroine.  Lest  the  artist's  delineation  of 
her  charms  on  this  very  page  humbug  your  fancy,  take 
from  me  her  authorized  description.  She  was  a  nice- 
looking,  awkward,  loud,  rather  bashful,  brown-haired 
girl,  with  a  sallow  complexion,  bright  eyes,  and  a  per- 
petual smile.  She  had  a  wholesome,  Spfaggins-in- 
herited  love  for  plain  food,  loose  clothing,  and  the 
society  of  the  lower  classes.  She  had  too  much  health 
and  youth  to  feel  the  burden  of  wealth.  She  had  a 
wide  mouth  that  kept  the  peppermint-pepsin  tablets 


218  Strictly  Business 

rattling  like  hail  from  the  slot-machine  wherever  she 
went,  and  she  could  whistle  hornpipes.  Keep  this  pic- 
ture in  mind ;  and  let  the  artist  do  his  worst. 

Celia  looked  out  of  her  window  one  day  and  gave  her 
heart  to  the  grocer's  young  man.  The  receiver  thereof 
was  at  that  moment  engaged  in  conceding  immortality 
to  his  horse  and  calling  down  upon  him  the  ultimate  fate 
of  the  wicked;  so  he  did  not  notice  the  transfer.  A 
horse  should  stand  still  when  you  are  lifting  a  crate  of 
strictly  new-laid  eggs  out  of  the  wagon. 

Young  lady  reader,  you  would  have  liked  that 
grocer's  young  man  yourself.  But  you  wouldn't  have 
given  him  your  heart,  because  you  are  saving  it  for  a 
riding-master,  or  a  shoe-manufacturer  with  a  torpid 
liver,  or  something  quiet  but  rich  in  gray  tweeds  at 
Palm  Beach.  Oh,  I  know  about  it.  So  I  am  glad  the 
grocer's  young  man  was  for  Celia,  and  not  for  you. 

The  grocer's  young  man  was  slim  and  straight  and  as 
confident  and  easy  in  his  movements  as  the  man  in  the 
back  of  the  magazines  who  wears  the  new  frictionless 
roller  suspenders.  He  wore  a  gray  bicycle  cap  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  his  hair  was  straw-colored  and 
curly,  and  his  sunburned  face  looked  like  one  that 
smiled  a  good  deal  when  he  was  not  preaching  the  doc- 
trine of  everlasting  punishment  to  delivery-wagon 
horses.  He  slung  imported  Al  fancy  groceries  about 
as  though  they  were  only  the  stuff  he  delivered  at 
boarding-houses ;  and  when  he  picked  up  his  whip,  your 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  219 

.«ind  instantly  recalled  Mr.  Tackett  and  his  air  with  the 
buttonless  foils. 

Tradesmen  delivered  their  goods  at  a  side  gate  at  the 
rear  of  the  house.  The  grocer's  wagon  came  about  ten 
in  the  morning.  For  three  days  Celia  watched  the  driver 
when  he  came,  finding  something  new  each  time  to 
admire  in  the  lofty  and  almost  contemptuous  way  he 
had  of  tossing  around  the  choicest  gifts  of  Pomona, 
Ceres,  and  the  canning  factories.  Then  she  consulted 
Annette. 

To  be  explicit,  Annette  McCorkle,  the  second  house- 
maid who  deserves  a  paragraph  herself.  Annette 
Fletcherized  large  numbers  of  romantic  novels  which 
she  obtained  at  a  free  public  library  branch  (donated 
by  one  of  the  biggest  caliphs  in  the  business).  She  was 
Celia's  sidekicker  and  chum,  though  Aunt  Henrietta 
didn't  know  it,  you  may  hazard  a  bean  or  two. 

"  Oh,  canary-bird  seed ! "  exclaimed  Annette. 
"  Ain't  it  a  corkin'  situation?  You  a  heiress,  and  fallin* 
in  love  with  him  on  sight!  He's  a  sweet  boy,  too,  and 
above  his  business.  But  he  ain't  suspectible  like  the 
common  run  of  grocer's  assistants.  He  never  pays  no 
attention  to  me." 

"  He  will  to  me,"  said  Celia. 

"  Riches  — "  began  Annette,  unsheathing  the  not  un- 
justifiable feminine  sting. 

"  Oh,  you're  not  so  beautiful,"  said  Celia,  with  her 
wide,  disarming  smile.  "  Neither  am  I ;  but  he  sha'n't 


220  Strictly  Business 

know  that  there's  any  money  mixed  up  with  my  looks, 
such  as  they  are.  That's  fair.  Now,  I  want  you  to 
lend  me  one  of  your  caps  and  an  apron,  Annette." 

"  Oh,  marshmallows ! "  cried  Annette.  "  I  see. 
Ain't  it  lovely?  It's  just  like  « Lurline,  the  Left- 
Handed;  or,  A  Buttonhole  Maker's  Wrongs.'  I'll  bet 
he'll  turn  out  to  be  a  count." 

There  was  a  long  hallway  (or  "  passageway,"  as  they 
call  it  in  the  land  of  the  Colonels)  with  one  side  latticed, 
running  along  the  rear  of  the  house.  The  grocer's 
young  man  went  through  this  to  deliver  his  goods. 
One  morning  he  passed  a  girl  in  there  with  shining  eyes, 
sallow  complexion,  and  wide,  smiling  mouth,  wearing  a 
maid's  cap  and  apron.  But  as  he  was  cumbered  with  a 
basket  of  Early  Drumhead  lettuce  and  Trophy  toma- 
toes and  three  bunches  of  asparagus  and  six  bottles  of 
the  most  expensive  Queen  olives,  he  saw  no  more  than 
that  she  was  one  of  the  maids. 

But  on  his  way  out  he  came  up  behind  her,  and  she 
was  whistling  "  Fisher's  Hornpipe "  so  loudly  and 
clearly  that  all  the  piccolos  in  the  world  should  have 
disjointed  themselves  and  crept  into  their  cases  for 
shame. 

The  grocer's  young  man  stopped  and  pushed  baci 
his  cap  until  it  hung  on  his  collar  button  behind. 

"  That's  out  o'  sight,  Kid,"  said  he. 

"  My  name  is  Celia,  if  you  please,"  said  the  whistler, 
dazzling  him  with  a  three-inch  smile. 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  221 

"That's  all  right.  I'm  Thomas  McLeod.  What 
part  of  the  house  do  you  work  in?  " 

"  I'm  the  —  the  second  parlor  maid." 

"  Do  you  know  the  «  Falling  Waters'?  " 

"  No,"  said  Celia,  "  we  don't  know  anybody.  We 
got  rich  too  quick  —  that  is,  Mr.  Spraggins  did." 

"  I'll  make  you  acquainted,"  said  Thomas  McLeod. 
"  It's  a  strathspey  —  a  first  cousin  to  a  hornpipe." 

If  Celia's  whistling  put  the  piccolos  out  of  commis- 
sion, Thomas  McLeod's  surely  made  the  biggest  flutes 
hunt  their  holes.  He  could  actually  whistle  bass. 

When  he  stopped  Celia  was  ready  to  jump  into  his 
delivery  wagon  and  ride  with  him  clear  to  the  end  of  the 
pier  and  on  to  the  ferry-boat  of  the  Charon  line. 

"  I'll  be  around  to-morrow  at  10 :15,"  said  Thomas, 
"  with  some  spinach  and  a  case  of  carbonic." 

"  I'll  practice  that  what-you-may-call-it,"  said  Celia. 
"  I  can  whistle  a  fine  second." 

The  processes  of  courtship  are  personal,  and  do  not 
belong  to  general  literature.  They  should  be  chronicled 
in  detail  only  in  advertisements  of  iron  tonics  and  in  the 
secret  by-laws  of  the  Woman's  Auxiliary  of  the  Ancient 
Order  of  the  Rat  Trap.  But  genteel  writing  may  con- 
tain a  description  of  certain  stages  of  its  progress  with- 
out intruding  upon  the  province  of  the  X-ray  or  of 
park  policemen. 

A  day  came  when  Thomas  McLeod  and  Celia  lingered 
at  the  end  of  the  latticed  "  passage." 


222  Strictly  Business 

"  Sixteen  a  week  isn't  much,"  said  Thomas,  letting  his 
cap  rest  on  his  shoulder  blades. 

Celia  looked  through  the  lattice-work  and  whistled  a 
dead  march.  Shopping  with  Aunt  Henrietta  the  day 
before,  she  had  paid  that  much  for  a  dozen  handker- 
chiefs. 

"  Maybe  I'll  get  a  raise  next  month,"  said  Thomas. 
"  I'll  be  around  to-morrow  at  the  same  time  with  a  bag 
of  flour  and  the  laundry  soap." 

"  All  right,"  said  Celia.  "  Annette's  married  cousin 
pays  only  $20  a  month  for  a  flat  in  the  Bronx." 

Never  for  a  moment  did  she  count  on  the  Spraggins 
money.  She  knew  Aunt  Henrietta's  invincible  pride 
of  caste  and  pa's  mightiness  as  a  Colossus  of  cash,  and 
she  understood  that  if  she  chose  Thomas  she  and  her 
grocer's  young  man  might  go  whistle  for  their  living. 

Another  day  came,  Thomas  violating  the  dignity  of 
Nabob  Avenue  with  "  The  Devil's  Dream,"  whistled 
keenly  between  his  teeth. 

"  Raised  to  eighteen  a  week  yesterday,"  he  said. 
"  Been  pricing  flats  around  Morningside.  You  want 
to  start  untying  those  apron  strings  and  unpinning  that 
cap,  old  girl." 

"  Oh,  Tommy ! "  said  Celia,  with  her  broadest  smile. 
"  Won't  that  be  enough  ?  I  got  Betty  to  show  me  how 
to  make  a  cottage  pudding.  I  guess  we  could  call  it  a 
flat  pudding  if  we  wanted  to." 

"  And  tell  no  lie,"  said  Thomas. 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  223 

"  And  I  can  sweep  and  polish  and  dust  —  of  course, 
a  parlor  maid  learns  that.  And  we  could  whistle  duets 
of  evenings." 

"  The  old  man  said  he'd  raise  me  to  twenty  at  Christ- 
mas if  Bryan  couldn't  think  of  any  harder  name  to  call 
a  Republican  than  a  '  postponer,'  "  said  the  grocer's 
young  man. 

"  I  can  sew,"  said  Celia ;  "  and  I  know  that  you  must 
make  the  gas  company's  man  show  his  badge  when  he 
comes  to  look  at  the  meter ;  and  I  know  how  to  put  up 
quince  jam  and  window  curtains." 

"  Bully !  you're  all  right,  Cele.  Yes,  I  believe  we 
can  pull  it  off  on  eighteen." 

As  he  was  jumping  into  the  wagon  the  second  parlor 
maid  braved  discovery  by  running  swiftly  to  the  gate. 

"  And,  oh,  Tommy,  I  forgot,"  she  called,  softly. 
"  I  believe  I  could  make  your  neckties." 

"  Forget  it,"  said  Thomas  decisively. 

"  And  another  thing,"  she  continued.  "  Sliced  cu- 
cumbers at  night  will  drive  away  cockroaches." 

"  And  sleep,  too,  you  bet,"  said  Mr.  McLeod.  "  Yes, 
I  believe  if  I  have  a  delivery  to  make  on  the  West  Side 
this  afternoon  I'll  look  in  at  a  furniture  store  I  know 
over  there." 

It  was  just  as  the  wagon  dashed  away  that  old  Jacob 
Spraggins  struck  the  sideboard  with  his  fist  and  made 
the  mysterious  remark  about  ten  thousand  dollars  that 
you  perhaps  remember.  Which  justifies  the  reflection 


224  Strictly  Business 

that  some  stories,  as  well  as  life,  and  puppies  thrown 
into  wells,  move  around  in  circles.  Painfully  but 
briefly  we  must  shed  light  on  Jacobs'  words. 

The  foundation  of  his  fortune  was  made  when  he  was 
twenty.  A  poor  coal-digger  (ever  hear  of  a  rich  one?) 
had  saved  a  dollar  or  two  and  bought  a  small  tract  of 
land  on  a  hillside  on  which  he  tried  to  raise  corn.  Not 
a  nubbin.  Jacob,  whose  nose  was  a  divining-rod,  told 
him  there  was  a  vein  of  coal  beneath.  He  bought  the 
land  from  the  miner  for  $125  and  sold  it  a  month  after- 
ward for  $10,000.  Luckily  the  miner  had  enough  left 
of  his  sale  money  to  drink  himself  into  a  black  coat 
opening  in  the  back,  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  news. 

And  so,  forty  years  afterward,  we  find  Jacob  il- 
luminated with  the  sudden  thought  that  if  he  could 
make  restitution  of  this  sum  of  money  to  the  heirs  or 
assigns  of  the  unlucky  miner,  respite  and  Nepenthe 
might  be  his. 

And  now  must  come  swift  action,  for  we  have  here 
some  four  thousand  words  and  not  a  tear  shed  and 
never  a  pistol,  joke,  safe,  nor  bottle  cracked. 

Old  Jacob  hired  a  dozen  private  detectives  to  find 
the  heirs,  if  any  existed,  of  the  old  miner,  Hugh 
McLeod. 

Get  the  point?  Of  course  I  know  as  well  as  you 
do  that  Thomas  is  going  to  be  the  heir.  I  might  have 
concealed  the  name ;  but  why  always  hold  back  your 
mystery  till  the  end?  I  say,  let  it  come  near  the  mid- 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  225 

31e  so  people  can  stop  reading  there  if  they  want  to. 

After  the  detectives  had  trailed  false  clues  about 
three  thousand  dollars  —  I  mean  miles  —  they  cornered 
Thomas  at  the  grocery  and  got  his  confession  that  Hugh 
McLeod  had  been  his  grandfather,  and  that  there  were 
no  other  heirs.  They  arranged  a  meeting  for  him  and 
old  Jacob  one  morning  in  one  of  their  offices. 

Jacob  liked  the  young  man  very  much.  He  liked  the 
way  he  looked  straight  at  him  when  he  talked,  and  the 
way  he  threw  his  bicycle  cap  over  the  top  of  a  rose- 
colored  vase  on  the  centre-table. 

There  was  a  slight  flaw  in  Jacob's  system  of  restitu- 
tion. He  did  not  consider  that  the  act,  to  be  perfect, 
should  include  confession.  So  he  represented  himself 
to  be  the  agent  of  the  purchaser  of  the  land  who  had 
sent  him  to  refund  the  sale  price  for  the  ease  of  his 
conscience. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Thomas,  "  this  sounds  to  me  like 
an  illustrated  post-card  from  South  Boston  with  '  We're 
having  a  good  time  here '  written  on  it.  I  don't  know 
the  game.  Is  this  ten  thousand  dollars  money,  or  do  I 
have  to  save  so  many  coupons  to  get  it?  " 

Old  Jacob  counted  out  to  him  twenty  five-hundred- 
dollar  bills. 

That  was  better,  he  thought,  than  a  check.  Thomas 
put  them  thoughtfully  into  his  pocket. 

"  Grandfather's  best  thanks,"  he  said,  "  to  the  party 
who  sends  it." 


226  Strictly  'Business 

Jacob  talked  on,  asking  him  about  his  work,  how  he 
spent  his  leisure  time,  and  what  his  ambitions  were. 
The  more  he  saw  and  heard  of  Thomas,  the  better  he 
liked  him.  He  had  not  met  many  young  men  in  Bagdad 
so  frank  and  wholesome, 

"  I  would  like  to  have  you  visit  my  house,"  he  said. 
"  I  might  help  you  in  investing  or  laying  out  your 
money.  I  am  a  very  wealthy  man.  I  have  a  daughter 
about  grown,  and  I  would  like  for  you  to  know  her. 
There  are  not  many  young  men  I  would  care  to  have  call 
on  her." 

"  I'm  obliged,"  said  Thomas.  "  I'm  not  much  at 
making  calls.  It's  generally  the  side  entrance  for  mine. 
And,  besides,  I'm  engaged  to  a  girl  that  has  the  Dela- 
ware peach  crop  killed  in  the  blossom.  She's  a  parlor 
maid  in  a  house  where  I  deliver  goods.  She  won't  be 
working  there  much  longer,  though.  Say,  don't  for- 
get to  give  your  friend  my  grandfather's  best  regards. 
You'll  excuse  me  now ;  my  wagon's  outside  with  a  lot  of 
green  stuff  that's  got  to  be  delivered.  See  you  again, 
sir." 

At  eleven  Thomas  delivered  some  bunches  of  parsley 
and  lettuce  at  the  Spraggins  mansion.  Thomas  was 
only  twenty-two;  so,  as  he  came  back,  he  took  out  the 
handful  of  five-hundred-dollar  bills  and  waved  them 
carelessly.  Annette  took  a  pair  of  eyes  as  big  as 
creamed  onions  to  the  cook. 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  227 

"  I  told  you  he  was  a  count,"  she  said,  after  relating. 
"  He  never  would  carry  on  with  me." 

"  But  you  say  he  showed  money,"  said  the  cook. 

"  Hundreds  of  thousands,"  said  Annette.  "  Carried 
around  loose  in  his  pockets.  And  he  never  would  look 
at  me." 

"  It  was  paid  to  me  to-day,"  Thomas  was  explaining 
to  Celia  outside.  "  It  came  from  my  grandfather's 
estate.  Say,  Cele,  what's  the  use  of  waiting  now  ?  I'm 
going  to  quit  the  job  to-night.  Why  can't  we  get  mar- 
ried next  week  ?  " 

"  Tommy,"  said  Celia,  "  I'm  no  parlor  maid.  I've 
been  fooling  you.  I'm  Miss  Spraggins  —  Celia  Sprag- 
gins.  The  newspapers  say  I'll  be  worth  forty  million 
dollars  some  day." 

Thomas  pulled  his  cap  down  straight  on  his  head 
for  the  first  time  since  we  have  known  him. 

"  I  suppose  then,"  said  he,  "  I  suppose  then  you'll 
not  be  marrying  me  next  week.  But  you  can  whistle." 

"  No,"  said  Celia,  "  I'll  not  be  marrying  you  next 
week.  My  father  would  never  let  me  marry  a  grocer's 
clerk.  But  I'll  marry  you  to-night,  Tommy,  if  you 
say  so." 

Old  Jacob  Spraggins  came  home  at  9 :30  P.  M.,  in  his 
motor  car.  The  make  of  it  you  will  have  to  surmise 
sorrowfully ;  I  am  giving  you  unsubsidized  fiction ;  had  it 
been  a  street  car  I  could  have  told  you  its  voltage  and 


228  Strictly  Business 

the  number  of  flat  wheels  it  had.  Jacob  called  for  his 
daughter;  he  had  bought  a  ruby  necklace  for  her,  and 
wanted  to  hear  her  say  what  a  kind,  thoughtful,  dear  old 
dad  he  was. 

There  was  a  brief  search  in  the  house  for  her,  and 
then  came  Annette,  glowing  with  the  pure  flame  of 
truth  and  loyalty  well  mixed  with  envy  and  histrionics. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  she,  wondering  if  she  should  kneel, 
"  Miss  Celia's  just  this  minute  running  away  out  of 
the  side  gate  with  a  young  man  to  be  married.  I 
couldn't  stop  her,  sir.  They  went  in  a  cab." 

"  What  young  man  ?  "  roared  old  Jacob. 

"  A  millionaire,  if  you  please,  sir  —  a  rich  nobleman 
in  disguise.  He  carries  his  money  with  him,  and  the 
red  peppers  and  the  onions  was  only  to  blind  us1,  sir. 
He  never  did  seem  to  take  to  me." 

Jacob  rushed  out  in  time  to  catch  his  car.  The 
chauffeur  had  been  delayed  by  trying  to  light  a  ciga- 
rette in  the  wind. 

"  Here,  Gaston,  or  Mike,  or  whatever  you  call  your- 
self, scoot  around  the  corner  quicker  than  blazes  and 
see  if  you  can  see  a  cab.  If  you  do,  run  it  down." 

There  was  a  cab  in  sight  a  block  away.  Gaston,  or 
Mike,  with  his  eyes  half  shut  and  his  mind  on  his 
cigarette,  picked  up  the  trail,  neatly  crowded  the  cab 
to  the  curb  and  pocketed  it. 

"  What  fell  you  doin'?  "  yelled  the  cabman. 

"Pa!"  shrieked  Celia. 


A  Night  in  New  Arabia  229 

*'  Grandfather's  remorseful  friend's  agent ! "  said 
Thomas.  "  Wonder  what's  on  his  conscience  now." 

"  A  thousand  thunders !  "  said  Gaston,  or  Mike.  "  I 
have  no  other  match." 

"  Young  man,"  said  old  Jacob,  severely,  "  how  about 
that  parlor  maid  you  were  engaged  to?  " 

A  couple  of  years  afterward  old  Jacob  went  into  the 
office  of  his  private  secretary. 

"  The  Amalgamated  Missionary  Society  solicits  a 
contribution  of  $30,000  toward  the  conversion  of  the 
Koreans,"  said  the  secretary. 

"  Pass  'em  up,"  said  Jacob. 

"  The  University  of  Plumville  writes  that  its  yearly 
endowment  fund  of  $50,000  that  you  bestowed  upon  it 
is  past  due." 

"  Tell  »em  it's  been  cut  out." 

"  The  Scientific  Society  of  Clam  Cove,  Long  Island, 
asks  for  $10,000  to  buy  alcohol  to  preserve  specimens." 

"  Waste  basket." 

"  The  Society  for  Providing  Healthful  Recreation 
for  Working  Girls  wants  $20,000  from  you  to  lay  out 
a  golf  course." 

"  Tell  'em  to  see  an  undertaker. 

"  Cut  'em  all  out,"  went  on  Jacob.  "  I've  quit  being 
a  good  thing.  I  need  every  dollar  I  can  scrape  or  save. 
I  want  you  to  write  to  the  directors  of  every  company 
that  I'm  interested  in  and  recommend  a  10  per  cent. 


230  Strictly  Business 

cut  in  salaries.  And  say  —  I  noticed  half  a  cake  of 
soap  lying  in  a  corner  of  the  hall  as  I  came  in.  I  want 
you  to  speak  to  the  scrubwoman  about  waste.  I've  got 
no  money  to  throw  away.  And  say  —  we've  got  vine-, 
gar  pretty  well  in  hand,  haven't  we? " 

"The  Globe  Spice  &  Seasons  Company,"  said  the 
secretary,  "controls  the  market  at  present." 

"  Raise  vinegar  two  cents  a  gallon.  Notify  all  our 
branches." 

Suddenly  Jacob  Spraggin's  plump  red  face  relaxed 
into  a  pulpy  grin.  He  walked  over  to  the  secretary's  desk 
and  showed  a  small  red  mark  on  his  thick  forefinger. 

"  Bit  it,"  he  said,  "  darned  if  he  didn't,  and  he  ain't 
had  the  tooth  three  weeks  —  Jaky  McLeod,  my  Celia's 
kid.  He'll  be  worth  a  hundred  millions  by  the  time 
he's  twenty-one  if  I  can  pile  it  up  for  him." 

As  he  was  leaving,  old  Jacob  turned  at  the  door,  and 
said: 

"  Better  make  that  vinegar  raise  three  cents  instead 
of  two.  I'll  be  back  in  an  hour  and  sign  the  letters." 

The  true  history  of  the  Caliph  Harun  Al  Rashid  re- 
lates that  toward  the  end  of  his  reign  he  wearied  of 
philanthropy,  and  caused  to  be  beheaded  all  his  former 
favorites  and  companions  of  his  "  Arabian  Nights " 
rambles.  Happy  are  we  in  these  days  of  enlighten- 
ment, when  the  only  death  warrant  the  caliphs  can 
serve  on  us  is  in  the  form  of  a  tradesman's  bill. 


XVIII 
THE  GIRL  AND  THE  HABIT 

HABIT  —  a  tendency  or  aptitude  acquired  by  custom  or  fre- 
quent repetition. 

1  HE  critics  have  assailed  every  source  of  inspiration 
save  one.  To  that  one  we  are  driven  for  our  moral 
theme.  When  we  levied  upon  the  masters  of  old  they 
gleefully  dug  up  the  parallels  to  our  columns.  When 
we  strove  to  set  forth  real  life  they  reproached  us  for 
trying  to  imitate  Henry  George,  George  Washington, 
Washington  Irving  and  Irving  Bacheller.  We  wrote 
of  the  West  and  the  East,  and  they  accused  us  of  both 
Jesse  and  Henry  James.  We  wrote  from  our  heart — > 
and  they  said  something  about  a  disordered  liver.  We 
took  a  text  from  Matthew  or  —  er  —  yes,  Deuter- 
onomy, but  the  preachers  were  hammering  away  at  the 
inspiration  idea  before  we  could  get  into  type.  So, 
driven  to  the  wall,  we  go  for  our  subject-matter  to  the 
reliable,  old,  moral,  unassailable  vade  mecum  —  the  un- 
abridged dictionary. 

Miss  Merriam  was  cashier  at  Hinkle's.  Hinkle's  is 
one  of  the  big  downtown  restaurants.  It  is  in  what  the 
papers  call  the  "  financial  district."  Each  day  from 

231 


232  Strictly  Business 

12  o'clock  to  2  Hinkle's  was  full  of  hungry  customers 
—  messenger  boys,  stenographers,  brokers,  owners  of 
mining  stock,  promoters,  inventors  with  patents  pend- 
ing —  and  also  people  with  money. 

The  cashiership  at  Hinkle's  was  no  sinecure.  Hinkle 
egged  and  toasted  and  griddle-caked  and  coffeed  a  good 
many  customers;  and  he  lunched  (as  good  a  word  as 
"  dined  ")  many  more.  It  might  be  said  that  Hinkle's 
breakfast  crowd  was  a  contingent,  but  his  luncheon 
patronage  amounted  to  a  horde. 

Miss  Merriam  sat  on  a  stool  at  a  desk  inclosed  on 
three  sides  by  a  strong,  high  fencing  of  woven  brass 
wire.  Through  an  arched  opening  at  the  bottom  you 
thrust  your  waiter's  check  and  the  money,  while  your 
heart  went  pit-a-pat. 

For  Miss  Merriam  was  lovely  and  capable.  She 
could  take  45  cents  out  of  a  $2  bill  and  refuse  an  offer 
of  marriage  before  you  could  —  Next!  —  lost  your 
chance  —  please  don't  shove.  She  could  keep  cool  and 
collected  while  she  collected  your  check,  give  you  the 
correct  change,  win  your  heart,  indicate  the  toothpick 
stand,  and  rate  you  to  a  quarter  of  a  cent  better  than 
Bradstreet  could  to  a  thousand  in  less  time  than  it  takes 
to  pepper  an  egg  with  one  of  Hinkle's  casters. 

There  is  an  old  and  dignified  allusion  to  the  "  fierce 
light  that  beats  upon  a  throne."  The  light  that  beats 
upon  the  young  lady  cashier's  cage  is  also  something 
fierce.  The  other  fellow  is  responsible  for  the  slang. 


The  Girl  and  the  Habit  233 

Every  male  patron  of  Hinkle's,  from  the  A.  D.  T. 
boys  up  to  the  curbstone  brokers,  adored  Miss  Mer- 
riam.  When  they  paid  their  checks  they  wooed  her 
with  every  wile  known  to  Cupid's  art.  Between  the 
meshes  of  the  brass  railing  went  smiles,  winks,  compli- 
ments, tender  vows,  invitations  to  dinner,  sighs,  lan- 
guishing looks  and  merry  banter  that  was  wafted  point- 
edly back  by  the  gifted  Miss  Merriam. 

There  is  no  coign  of  vantage  more  effective  than  the 
position  of  young  lady  cashier.  She  sits  there,  easily 
queen  of  the  court  of  commerce;  she  is  duchess  of  dol- 
lars and  devoirs,  countess  of  compliments  and  coin, 
leading  lady  of  love  and  luncheon.  You  take  from  her 
a  smile  and  a  Canadian  dime,  and  you  go  your  way 
uncomplaining.  You  count  the  cheery  word  or  two 
that  she  tosses  you  as  misers  count  their  treasures ;  and 
you  pocket  the  change  for  a  five  uncomputed.  Perhaps 
the  brass-bound  inaccessibility  multiplies  her  charms  — 
anyhow,  she  is  a  shirt-waisted  angel,  immaculate,  trim, 
manicured,  seductive,  bright-eyed,  ready,  alert  — • 
Psyche,  Circe  and  Ate  in  one,  separating  you  from 
your  circulating  medium  after  your  sirloin  medium. 

The  young  men  who  broke  bread  at  Hinkle's  never 
settled  with  the  cashier  without  an  exchange  of  badi- 
nage and  open  compliment.  Many  of  them  went  to 
greater  lengths  and  dropped  promissory  hints  of  theatre 
tickets  and  chocolates.  The  older  men  spoke  plainly 
of  orange  blossoms,  generally  withering  the  tentative 


234  Strictly  Business 

petals  by  after-allusions  to  Harlem  flats.  One  broker, 
•who  had  been  squeezed  by  copper  proposed  to  Miss 
Merriam  more  regularly  than  he  ate. 

During  a  brisk  luncheon  hour  Miss  Merriam's  convex 
sation,  while  she  took  money  for  checks,  would  run 
something  like  this: 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Haskins  —  sir?  —  it's  natural, 
thank  you  —  don't  be  quite  so  fresh  .  .  .  Hello, 
Johnny  —  ten,  fifteen,  twenty  —  chase  along  now  or 
they'll  take  the  letters  off  your  cap  .  .  .  Beg  pardon 

—  count  it  again,  please  • —  Oh,  don't  mention  it  ... 
Vaudeville?  —  thanks;  not  on  your  moving  picture  —  I 
•was  to  see  Carter  in  Hedda  Gabler  on  Wednesday  night 
with  Mr.  Simmons  .  .  .  'Scuse  me,  I  thought  that  was 
a  quarter  .  .  .  Twenty-five  and  seventy-five's  a  dollar 

—  got  that  ham-and-cabbage  habit  yet.     I  see,  Billy 
.  .  .  Who  are  you  addressing?  —  say  —  you'll  get  all 
that's    coming   to   you   in   a   minute  .  .  .  Oh,    fudge ! 
Mr.  Bassett  —  you're  always  fooling  —  no — ?     Well, 
maybe   I'll   marry   you    some    day  —  three,    four   and 
sixty-five    is   five  .  .  .  Kindly   keep   them   remarks   to 
yourself,  if  you  please  .  .  .  Ten  cents? — 'scuse  me; 
the  check  calls  for  seventy  —  well,  maybe  it  is  a  one 
instead  of  a  seven  .  .  .  Oh,  do  you  like  it  that  way, 
Mr.  Saunders  ?  —  some  prefer  a  pomp ;  but  they  say 
this  Cleo  de  Merody  does  suit  refined  features  .  .  .  and 
ten  is  fifty  .  .  .  Hike  along  there,  buddy;  don't  take 
this   for   a   Coney   Island  ticket   booth  .  .  .  Huh? — ' 


The  Girl  and  the  Habit  235 

why,  Macy's  —  don't  it  fit  nice?  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  too 
cool  —  these  light-weight  fabrics  is  all  the  go  this  sea- 
son .  .  .  Come  again,  please  —  that's  the  third  time 
you've  tried  to  —  what?  —  forget  it  —  that  lead  quarter 
is  an  old  friend  of  mine  .  .  .  Sixty-five?  —  must  have 
bad  your  salary  raised,  Mr.  Wilson  ...  I  seen  you  on 
Sixth  Avenue  Tuesday  afternoon,  Mr.  De  Forest  — 
swell?  —  oh,  my! — >  who  is  she?  .  .  .  What's  the  matter 
with  it?  —  why,  it  ain't  money — what?  —  Columbian 
half?  —  well,  this  ain't  South  America  .  .  .  Yes,  I  like 
the  mixed  best  —  Friday?  —  awfully  sorry,  but  I  take 
my  jiu-jitsu  lesson  on  Friday  —  Thursday,  then  .  .  . 
Thanks  —  that's  sixteen  times  I've  been  told  that  this 
morning  —  I  guess  I  must  be  beautiful  .  .  .  Cut  that 
out,  please  —  who  do  you  think  I  am  ?  .  .  .  Why,  Mr. 
Westbrook  —  do  you  really  think  so?  —  the  idea!^ 
one  —  eighty  and  twenty's  a  dollar  —  thank  you  ever  so 
much ;  but  I  don't  ever  go  automobile  riding  with  gentle- 
men—  your  aunt?  —  well,  that's  different  —  perhaps 
.  .  .  Please  don't  get  fresh  —  your  check  was  fifteen 
cents,  I  believe' — kindly  step  aside  and  let  ...  Hello, 
Ben — -coming  around  Thursday  evening? — r  there's  a 
gentleman  going  to  send  around  a  box  of  chocolates,  and 
.  .  .  forty  and  sixty  is  a  dollar,  and  one  is  two  .  .  ." 

About  the  middle  of  one  afternoon  the  dizzy  goddess 
Vertigo  —  whose  other  name  is  Fortune  —  suddenly 
smote  an  old,  wealthy  and  eccentric  banker  while  he  was 
walking  past  Hinkle's,  on  his  way  to  a  street  car.  A 


236  Strictly  Business 

wealthy  and  eccentric  banker  who  rides  in  street  cars  is 
* —  move  up,  please ;  there  are  others. 

A  Samaritan,  a  Pharisee,  a  man  and  a  policeman  who 
were  first  on  the  spot  lifted  Banker  McRamsey  and  car- 
ried him  into  Hinkle's  restaurant.  When  the  aged  but 
indestructible  banker  opened  his  eyes  he  saw  a  beautiful 
vision  bending  over  him  with  a  pitiful,  tender  smile,  bath- 
ing his  forehead  with  beef  tea  and  chafing  his  hands  with 
something  frappe  out  of  a  chafing-dish.  Mr.  McRam- 
sey sighed,  lost  a  vest  button,  gazed  with  deep  gratitude 
upon  his  fair  preserveress,  and  then  recovered  conscious- 
ness. 

To  the  Seaside  Library  all  who  are  anticipating  a 
romance!  Banker  McRamsey  had  an  aged  and  re- 
spected wife,  and  his  sentiments  toward  Miss  Merriara 
were  fatherly.  He  talked  to  her  for  half  an  hour  with 
interest  —  not  the  kind  that  went  with  his  talks  during 
business  hours.  The  next  day  he  brought  Mrs.  Mc- 
Ramsey down  to  see  her.  The  old  couple  were  child- 
less —  they  had  only  a  married  daughter  living  in 
Brooklyn. 

To  make  a  short  story  shorter,  the  beautiful  cashier 
won  the  hearts  of  the  good  old  couple.  They  came  to 
Hinkle's  again  and  again ;  they  invited  her  to  their  old- 
fashioned  but  splendid  home  in  one  of  the  East  Seven- 
ties. Miss  Merriam's  winning  loveliness,  her  sweet 
frankness  and  impulsive  heart  took  them  by  storm. 
They  said  a  hundred  times  that  Miss  Merriam  reminded 


The  Girl  and  the  Habit  237 

them  so  much  of  their  lost  daughter.  The  Brooklyn 
matron,  nee  Ramsey,  had  the  figure  of  Buddha  and  a 
face  like  the  ideal  of  an  art  photographer.  Miss  Mer- 
riam  was  a  combination  of  curves,  smiles,  rose  leaves, 
pearls,  satin  and  hair-tonic  posters.  Enough  of  the 
fatuity  of  parents. 

A  month  after  the  worthy  couple  became  acquainted 
with  Miss  Merriam,  she  stood  before  Hinkle  one  after- 
noon and  resigned  her  cashiership. 

"  They're  going  to  adopt  me,"  she  told  the  bereft  res- 
taurateur. "  They're  funny  old  people,  but  regular 
dears.  And  the  swell  home  they  have  got!  Say, 
Hinkle,  there  isn't  any  use  of  talking  —  I'm  on  the  a  la 
carte  to  wear  brown  duds  and  goggles  in  a  whiz  wagon, 
or  marry-  a  duke  at  least.  Still,  I  somehow  hate  to  break 
out  of  the  old  cage.  I've  been  cashiering  so  long  I  feel 
funny  doing  anything  else.  I'll  miss  joshing  the  fel- 
lows awfully  when  they  line  up  to  pay  for  the  buck- 
wheats and.  But  I  can't  let  this  chance  slide.  And 
they're  awfully  good,  Hinkle;  I  know  I'll  have  a  swell 
time.  You  owe  me  nine-sixty-two  and  a  half  for  the 
week.  Cut  out  the  half  if  it  hurts  you,  Hinkle." 

And  they  did.  Miss  Merriam  became  Miss  Rosa  Mc- 
Ramsey.  And  she  graced  the  transition.  Beauty  is 
only  skin-deep,  but  the  nerves  lie  very  near  to  the  skin. 
Nerve  —  but  just  here  will  you  oblige  by  perusing  again 
the  quotation  with  which  this  story  begins? 

The  McRamseys  poured  out  money  like  domestic  cham- 


238  Strictly  Business 

pagne  to  polish  their  adopted  one.  Milliners,  dancing 
masters  and  private  tutors  got  it.  Miss  —  er  —  Mc- 
Ramsey  was  grateful,  loving,  and  tried  to  forget 
Hinkle's.  To  give  ample  credit  to  the  adaptability  of 
the  American  girl,  Hinkle's  did  fade  from  her  memory 
and  speech  most  of  the  time. 

Not  every  one  will  remember  when  the  Earl  of  Hites- 

bury  came  to  East  Seventy Street,  America.  He 

was  only  a  fair-to-medium  earl,  without  debts,  and  he 
created  little  excitement.  But  you  will  surely  remem- 
ber the  evening  when  the  Daughters  of  Benevolence  held 

their  bazaar  in  the  W f-A a  Hotel.  For  you 

were  there,  and  you  wrote  a  note  to  Fannie  on  the  hotel 
paper,  and  mailed  it,  just  to  show  her  that  —  you  did 
not?  Very  well ;  that  was  the  evening  the  baby  was  sick, 
of  course. 

At  the  Bazaar  the  McRamseys  were  prominent.  Miss 
Mer  —  er  —  McRamsey  was  exquisitely  beautiful.  The 
Earl  of  Hitesbury  had  been  very  attentive  to  her  since  he 
dropped  in  to  have  a  look  at  America.  At  the  charity 
bazaar  the  affair  was  supposed  to  be  going  to  be  pulled 
off  to  a  finish.  An  earl  is  as  good  as  a  duke.  Better. 
His  standing  may  be  lower,  but  his  outstanding  accounts 
are  also  lower. 

Our  ex-young-lady-cashier  was  assigned  to  a  booth. 
She  was  expected  to  sell  worthless  articles  to  nobs  and 
snobs  at  exorbitant  prices.  The  proceeds  of  the  bazaar 
were  to  be  used  for  giving  to  the  poor  children  of  the 


The  Girl  and  the  Habit  239 

slums  a  Christmas  din Say !  did  you  ever  wonder 

where  they  get  the  other  364  ? 

Miss  McRamsey  —  beautiful,  palpitating,  excited, 
charming,  radiant  —  fluttered  about  in  her  booth.  An 
imitation  brass  network,  with  a  little  arched  opening, 
fenced  her  in. 

Along  came  the  Earl,  assured,  delicate,  accurate,  ad- 
miring —  admiring  greatly,  and  faced  the  open  wicket. 

"  You  look  chawming,  you  know  —  'pon  my  word  you 
do  —  my  deah,"  he  said,  beguilingly. 

Miss  McRamsey  whirled  around. 

"Cut  that  joshing  out,"  she  said,  coolly  and  briskly. 
"  Who  do  you  think  you  are  talking  to?  Your  check, 
please.  Oh,  Lordy !  — " 

Patrons  of  the  bazaar  became  aware  of  a  commotion 
and  pressed  around  a  certain  booth.  The  Earl  of  Hites- 
bury  stood  near  by  pulling  a  pale  blond  and  puzzled 
whisker. 

"  Miss  McRamsey  has  fainted,"  some  one  explained. 


XIX 

PROOF  OF  THE  PUDDING 

SPRING  winked  a  vitreous  optic  at  Editor  Westbrook 
of  the  Mvnerva  Magazine,  and  deflected  him  from  his 
course.  He  had  lunched  in  his  favorite  corner  of  a 
Broadway  hotel,  and  was  returning  to  his  office  when  his 
feet  became  entangled  in  the  lure  of  the  vernal  coquette. 
Which  is  by  way  of  saying  that  he  turned  eastward  in 
Twenty-sixth  Street,  safely  forded  the  spring  freshet  of 
vehicles  in  Fifth  Avenue,  and  meandered  along  the  walks 
of  budding  Madison  Square. 

The  lenient  air  and  the  settings  of  the  little  park  al- 
most formed  a  pastoral ;  the  color  motif  was  green  —  the 
presiding  shade  at  the  creation  of  man  and  vegetation. 

The  callow  grass  between  the  walks  was  the  color  of 
verdigris,  a  poisonous  green,  reminiscent  of  the  horde  of 
derelict  humans  that  had  breathed  upon  the  soil  during 
the  summer  and  autumn.  The  bursting  tree  buds  looked 
strangely  familiar  to  those  who  had  botanized  among  the 
garnishings  of  the  fish  course  of  a  forty-cent  dinner. 
The  sky  above  was  of  that  pale  aquamarine  tint  that 
hallroom  poets  rhyme  with  "  true "  and  "  Sue "  and 

"  coo."     The  one  natural  and  frank  color  visible  was  the 

240 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  241 

ostensible  green  of  the  newly  painted  benches  —  a  shade 
between  the  color  of  a  pickled  cucumber  and  that  of  a 
last  year's  fast-black  cravenette  raincoat.  But,  to  the 
city-bred  eye  of  Editor  Westbrook,  the  landscape  ap- 
peared a  masterpiece. 

And  now,  whether  you  are  of  those  who  rush  in,  or  of 
the  gentle  concourse  that  fears  to  tread,  you  must  follow 
in  a  brief  invasion  of  the  editor's  mind. 

Editor  Westbrook's  spirit  was  contented  and  serene. 
The  April  number  of  the  Minerva  had  sold  its  entire  edi- 
tion before  the  tenth  day  of  the  month  —  a  newsdealer  in 
Keokuk  had  written  that  he  could  have  sold  fifty  copies 
more  if  he  had  had  'em.  The  owners  of  the  magazine 
had  raised  his  (the  editor's)  salary ;  he  had  just  installed 
in  his  home  a  jewel  of  a  recently  imported  cook  who  was 
afraid  of  policemen ;  and  the  morning  papers  had  pub- 
lished in  full  a  speech  he  had  made  at  a  publishers'  ban- 
quet. Also  there  were  echoing  in  his  mind  the  jubilant 
notes  of  a  splendid  song  that  his  charming  young  wife 
had  sung  to  him  before  he  left  his  up-town  apartment 
that  morning.  She  was  taking  enthusiastic  interest  in 
her  music  of  late,  practising  early  and  diligently.  When 
he  had  complimented  her  on  the  improvement  in  her 
voice  she  had  fairly  hugged  him  for  joy  at  his  praise. 
He  felt,  too,  the  benign,  tonic  medicament  of  the  trained 
nurse,  Spring,  tripping  softly  adown  the  wards  of  the 
convalescent  city. 

While  Editor  Westbrook  was  sauntering  between  the 


242  Strictly  Business 

rows  of  park  benches  (already  filling  with  vagrants  and 
the  guardians  of  lawless  childhood)  he  felt  his  sleeve 
grasped  and  held.  Suspecting  that  he  was  about  to  be 
panhandled,  he  turned  a  cold  and  unprofitable  face,  and 
saw  that  his  captor  was  —  Dawe  —  Shackleford  Dawe, 
dingy,  almost  ragged,  the  genteel  scarcely  visible  in  him 
through  the  deeper  lines  of  the  shabby. 

While  the  editor  is  pulling  himself  out  of  his  surprise, 
a  flashlight  biography  of  Dawe  is  offered. 

He  was  a  fiction  writer,  and  one  of  Westbrook's  old 
acquaintances.  At  one  time  they  might  have  called  each 
other  old  friends.  Dawe  had  some  money  in  those  days, 
and  lived  in  a  decent  apartment  house  near  Westbrook's. 
The  two  families  often  went  to  theatres  and  dinners 
together.  Mrs.  Dawe  and  Mrs.  Westbrook  became 
"  dearest  "  friends.  Then  one  day  a  little  tentacle  of  the 
octopus,  just  to  amuse  itself,  ingurgitated  Dawe's  capi- 
tal, and  he  moved  to  the  Gramercy  Park  neighborhood 
where  one,  for  a  few  groats  per  week,  may  sit  upon  one's 
trunk  under  eight-branched  chandeliers  and  opposite 
Carrara  marble  mantels  and  watch  the  mice  play  upon 
the  floor.  Dawe  thought  to  live  by  writing  fiction. 
Now  and  then  he  sold  a  story.  He  submitted  many  to 
Westbrook.  The  Minerva  printed  one  or  two  of  them ; 
the  rest  were  returned.  Westbrook  sent  a  careful  and 
conscientious  personal  letter  with  each  rejected  manu- 
script, pointing  out  in  detail  his  reasons  for  considering 
it  unavailable.  Editor  Westbrook  had  his  own  clear 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  243 

conception  of  what  constituted  good  fiction.  So  had 
Dawe.  Mrs.  Dawe  was  mainly  concerned  about  the  con- 
stituents of  the  scanty  dishes  of  food  that  she  managed 
to  scrape  together.  One  day  Dawe  had  been  spouting 
to  her  about  the  excellencies  of  certain  French  writers. 
At  dinner  they  sat  down  to  a  dish  that  a  hungry  school- 
boy could  have  encompassed  at  a  gulp.  Dawe  com- 
mented. 

"  It's  Maupassant  hash,"  said  Mrs.  Dawe.  "  It  may 
not  be  art,  but  I  do  wish  you  would  do  a  five-course 
Marion  Crawford  serial  with  an  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox 
sonnet  for  dessert.  I'm  hungry." 

As  far  as  this  from  success  was  Shackleford  Dawe 
when  he  plucked  Editor  Westbrook's  sleeve  in  Madison 
Square.  That  was  the  first  time  the  editor  had  seen 
Dawe  in  several  months. 

"  Why,  Shack,  is  this  you  ?  "  said  Westbrook,  some- 
what awkwardly,  for  the  form  of  his  phrase  seemed  to 
touch  upon  the  other's  changed  appearance. 

"  Sit  down  for  a  minute,"  said  Dawe,  tugging  at  his 
sleeve.  *'  This  is  my  office.  I  can't  come  to  yours, 
looking  as  I  do.  Oh,  sit  down  —  you  won't  be  dis- 
graced. Those  half-plucked  birds  on  the  other  benches 
will  take  you  for  a  swell  porch-climber.  They  won't 
know  you  are  only  an  editor." 

"  Smoke,  Shack?  "  said  Editor  Westbrook,  sinking 
cautiously  upon  the  virulent  green  bench.  He  always 
yielded  gracefully  when  he  did  yield. 


244  Strictly  Business 

Dawe  snapped  at  the  cigar  as  a  kingfisher  darts  at  a 
sunperch,  or  a  girl  pecks  at  a  chocolate  cream. 

"  I  have  just — "  began  the  editor. 

"  Oh,  I  know ;  don't  finish,"  said  Dawe.  "  Give  me  a 
match.  You  have  just  ten  minutes  to  spare.  How  did 
you  manage  to  get  past  my  office-boy  and  invade  my 
sanctum?  There  he  goes  now,  throwing  his  club  at  a 
dog  that  couldn't  read  the  '  Keep  off  the  Grass  '  signs." 

"  How  goes  the  writing?  "  asked  the  editor. 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  Dawe,  "  for  your  answer.  Now 
don't  put  on  that  embarrassed,  friendly-but-honest  look 
and  ask  me  why  I  don't  get  a  job  as  a  wine  agent  or  a 
cab  driver.  I'm  in  the  fight  to  a  finish.  I  know  I  can. 
write  good  fiction  and  I'll  force  you  fellows  to  admit  it 
yet.  I'll  make  you  change  the  spelling  of  '  regrets  '  to 
*  c-h-e-q-u-e  '  before  I'm  done  with  you." 

Editor  Westbrook  gazed  through  his  nose-glasses  with 
a  sweetly  sorrowful,  omniscient,  sympathetic,  skeptical 
expression  —  the  copyrighted  expression  of  the  editor 
beleagured  by  the  unavailable  contributor. 

"  Have  you  read  the  last  story  I  sent  you  — '  The 
Alarum  of  the  Soul '  ?  "  asked  Dawe. 

"  Carefully.  I  hesitated  over  that  story,  Shack, 
really  I  did.  It  had  some  good  points.  I  was  writing 
you  a  letter  to  send  with  it  when  it  goes  back  to  you.  I 
regret  — " 

"  Never  mind  the  regrets,"  said  Dawe,  grimly. 
"  There's  neither  salve  nor  sting  in  'em  any  more.  What 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  245 

T  want  to  know  is  why.  Come,  now ;  out  with  the  good 
points  first." 

"  The  story,"  said  Westbrook,  deliberately,  after  a 
suppressed  sigh,  "  is  written  around  an  almost  original 
plot.  Characterization  —  the  best  you  have  done. 
Construction  —  almost  as  good,  except  for  a  few  weak 
joints  which  might  be  strengthened  by  a  few  changes 
and  touches.  It  was  a  good  story,  except  — ' 

"  I  can  write  English,  can't  I?  "  interrupted  Dawe. 

"  I  have  always  told  you,"  said  the  editor,  "  that  you 
had  a  style." 

"  Then  the  trouble  is  the  — " 

"  Same  old  thing,"  said  Editor  Westbrook.  "  You 
work  up  to  your  climax  like  an  artist.  And  then  you 
turn  yourself  into  a  photographer.  I  don't  know  what 
form  of  obstinate  madness  possesses  you,  Shack,  but  that 
is  what  you  do  with  everything  that  you  write.  No,  I 
will  retract  the  comparison  with  the  photographer.  Now 
and  then  photography,  in  spite  of  its  impossible  per- 
spective, manages  to  record  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  truth. 
But  you  spoil  every  denouement  by  those  flat,  drab,  ob- 
literating strokes  of  your  brush  that  I  have  so  often 
complained  of.  If  you  would  rise  to  the  literary  pin- 
nacle of  your  dramatic  scenes,  and  paint  them  in  the 
high  colors  that  art  requires,  the  postman  would  leave 
fewer  bulky,  self-addressed  envelopes  at  your  door." 

"  Oh,  fiddles  and  footlights ! "  cried  Dawe,  derisively. 
*'  You've  got  that  old  sawmill  drama  kink  in  your  brain 


p 

246  Strictly  Business 

yet.  When  the  man  with  the  black  mustache  kidnaps 
golden-haired  Bessie  you  are  bound  to  have  the  mother 
kneel  and  raise  her  hands  in  the  spotlight  and  say: 
'  May  high  heaven  witness  that  I  will  rest  neither  night 
nor  day  till  the  heartless  villain  that  has  stolen  me  child 
feels  the  weight  of  another's  vengeance! ' ' 

Editor  Westbrook  conceded  a  smile  of  impervious 
complacency.  •••  • 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  "  that  in  real  life  the  woman  would 
express  herself  in  those  words  or  in  very  similar  ones." 

"  Not  in  a  six  hundred  nights'  run  anywhere  but  on  the 
stage,"  said  Dawe  hotly.  "  I'll  tell  you  what  she'd  say 
in  real  life.  She'd  say :  '  What !  Bessie  led  away  by  a 
strange  man?  Good  Lord!  It's  one  trouble  after 
another !  Get  my  other  hat,  I  must  hurry  around  to  the 
police-station.  Why  wasn't  somebody  looking  after  herf 
Fd  like  to  know?  For  God's  sake,  get  out  of  my  way  or 
I'll  never  get  ready.  Not  that  hat  —  the  brown  one 
with  the  velvet  bows.  Bessie  must  have  been  crazy ;  she's 
usually  shy  of  strangers.  Is  that  too  much  powder? 
Lordy !  How  I'm  upset ! ' 

"  That's  the  way  she'd  talk,"  continued  Dawe. 
"  People  in  real  life  don't  fly  into  heroics  and  blank  verse 
at  emotional  crises.  They  simply  can't  do  it.  If  they 
talk  at  all  on  such  occasions  they  draw  from  the  same 
vocabulary  that  they  use  every  day,  and  muddle  up  their 
words  and  ideas  a  little  more,  that's  all." 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  247 

"  Shack,"  said  Editor  Westbrook  impressively,  "  did 
you  ever  pick  up  the  mangled  and  lifeless  form  of  a  child 
from  under  the  fender  of  a  street  car,  and  carry  it  in 
your  arms  and  lay  it  down  before  the  distracted  mother? 
Did  you  ever  do  that  and  listen  to  the  words  of  grief 
and  despair  as  they  flowed  spontaneously  from  her  lips  ?  " 

"  I  never  did,"  said  Dawe.     "  Did  you?  " 

"  Well,  no,"  said  Editor  Westbrook,  with  a  slight 
frown.  "  But  I  can  well  imagine  what  she  would  say." 

"  So  can  I,"  said  Dawe. 

And  now  the  fitting  time  had  come  for  Editor  West- 
brook  to  play  the  oracle  and  silence  his  opinionated  con- 
tributor. It  was  not  for  an  unarrived  fictionist  to  dic- 
tate words  to  be  uttered  by  the  heroes  and  heroines  of 
the  Minerva  Magazine,  contrary  to  the  theories  of  the 
editor  thereof. 

"  My  dear  Shack,"  said  he,  "  if  I  know  anything  of  lif  e 
I  know  that  every  sudden,  deep  and  tragic  emotion  in  the 
human  heart  calls  forth  an  apposite,  concordant,  con- 
formable and  proportionate  expression  of  feeling.  How 
much  of  this  inevitable  accord  between  expression  and 
feeling  should  be  attributed  to  nature,  and  how  much  to 
the  influence  of  art,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  The 
sublimely  terrible  roar  of  the  lioness  that  has  been  de* 
prived  of  her  cubs  is  dramatically  as  far  above  her  cus- 
tomary whine  and  purr  as  the  kingly  and  transcendent 
utterances  of  Lear  are  above  the  level  of  his  senile  va* 


248  Strictly  Business 

porings.  But  it  is  also  true  that  all  men  and  women 
have  what  may  be  called  a  sub-conscious  dramatic  sense 
that  is  awakened  by  a  sufficiently  deep  and  powerful 
emotion  —  a  sense  unconsciously  acquired  from  litera- 
ture and  the  stage  that  prompts  them  to  express  those 
emotions  in  language  befitting  their  importance  and  his- 
trionic value." 

"  And  in  the  name  of  the  seven  sacred  saddle-blankets 
of  Sagittarius,  where  did  the  stage  and  literature  get  the 
stunt?  "  asked  Dawe. 

"  From  life,"  answered  the  editor,  triumphantly. 

The  story  writer  rose  from  the  bench  and  gesticulated 
eloquently  but  dumbly.  He  was  beggared  for  words 
with  which  to  formulate  adequately  his  dissent. 

On  a  bench  nearby  a  frowzy  loafer  opened  his  red 
eyes  and  perceived  that  his  moral  support  was  due  a 
downtrodden  brother. 

"  Punch  him  one,  Jack,"  he  called  hoarsely  to  Dawe. 
'*  Wat's  he  come  makin'  a  noise  like  a  penny  arcade  for 
amongst  gen'lemen  that  comes  in  the  Square  to  set  and 
think?" 

Editor  Westbrook  looked  at  his  watch  with  an  affected 
show  of  leisure. 

"  Tell  me,"  asked  Dawe,  with  truculent  anxiety, 
"  what  especial  faults  in  *  The  Alarum  of  the  Soul ' 
caused  you  to  throw  it  down  ?  " 

**  When  Gabriel  Murray,"  said  Westbrook,  "  goes  to 
his  telephone  and  is  told  that  his  fiancee  has  been  shot 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  249 

by  a  burglar,  he  says  —  I  do  not  recall  the  exact  words, 
but—" 

"  I  do,"  said  Dawe.  "  He  says :  *  Damn  Central ; 
she  always  cuts  me  off.'  (And  then  to  his  friend)  '  Say, 
Tommy,  does  a  thirty-two  bullet  make  a  big  hole?  It's 
kind  of  hard  luck,  ain't  it?  Could  you  get  me  a  drink 
from  the  sideboard,  Tommy?  No ;  straight ;  nothing  on 
the  side.' " 

"And  again,"  continued  the  editor,  without  pausing 
for  argument,  "  when  Berenice  opens  the  letter  from  her 
husband  informing  her  that  he  has  fled  with  the  manicure 
girl,  her  words  are  —  let  me  see  — " 

"She  says,"  interposed  the  author:  "'Well,  what 
do  you  think  of  that ! '  " 

"  Absurdly  inappropriate  words,"  said  Westbrook, 
"  presenting  an  anti-climax  —  plunging  the  story  into 
hopeless  bathos.  Worse  yet ;  they  mirror  life  falsely. 
No  human  being  ever  uttered  banal  colloquialisms  when 
confronted  by  sudden  tragedy." 

"  Wrong,"  said  Dawe,  closing  his  unshaven  jaws  dog- 
gedly. "  I  say  no  man  or  woman  ever  spouts  '  high- 
falutin '  talk  when  they  go  up  against  a  real  climax. 
They  talk  naturally  and  a  little  worse." 

The  editor  rose  from  the  bench  with  his  air  of  indul- 
gence and  inside  information. 

"  Say,  Westbrook,"  said  Dawe,  pinning  him  by  the 
lapel,  "  would  you  have  accepted  '  The  Alarum  of  the 
Soul '  if  you  had  believed  that  the  actions  and  words 


250  Strictly  Business 

of  the  characters  were  true  to  life  in  the  parts  of  the 
story  that  we  discussed?  " 

"  It  is  very  likely  that  I  would,  if  I  believed  that 
way,"  said  the  editor.  "  But  I  have  explained  to  you 
that  I  do  not." 

"  If  I  could  prove  to  you  that  I  am  right  ?  " 

"  I'm  sorry,  Shack,  but  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  time  to 
argue  any  further  just  now." 

"  I  don't  want  to  argue,"  said  Dawe.  "  I  want  to 
demonstrate  to  you  from  life  itself  that  my  view  is  the 
correct  one." 

"  How  could  you  do  that  ?  "  asked  Westbrook,  in  a 
surprised  tone. 

"  Listen,"  said  the  writer,  seriously.  "  I  have  thought 
of  a  way.  It  is  important  to  me  that  my  theory  of 
true-to-life  fiction  be  recognized  as  correct  by  the  maga- 
zines. I've  fought  for  it  for  three  years,  and  I'm  down 
to  my  last  dollar,  with  two  months'  rent  due." 

"  I  have  applied  the  opposite  of  your  theory,"  said  the 
editor,  "  in  selecting  the  fiction  for  the  Minerva  Maga- 
zine. The  circulation  has  gone  up  from  ninety  thou- 
sand to — " 

"  Four  hundred  thousand,"  said  Dawe.  "  Whereas 
it  should  have  been  boosted  to  a  million." 

"  You  said  something  to  me  just  now  about  demon- 
strating your  pet  theory." 

"I  will.     If  you'll  give  me  about  half  an  hour  o/ 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  251 

jour  time  I'll  prove  to  you  that  I  am  right.  I'll  prove 
it  by  Louise." 

"  Your  wife !  "  exclaimed  Westbrook.     "  How?  " 

"  Well,  not  exactly  by  her,  but  with  her,"  said  Dawe. 
"  Now,  you  know  how  devoted  and  loving  Louise  has 
always  been.  She  thinks  I'm  the  only  genuine  prepara- 
tion on  the  market  that  bears  the  old  doctor's  signature. 
She's  been  fonder  and  more  faithful  than  ever,  since  I've 
been  cast  for  the  neglected  genius  part." 

"  Indeed,  she  is  a  charming  and  admirable  life  com- 
panion," agreed  the  editor.  "  I  remember  what  insep- 
arable friends  she  and  Mrs.  Westbrook  once  were.  We 
are  both  lucky  chaps,  Shack,  to  have  such  wives.  You 
must  bring  Mrs.  Dawe  up  some  evening  soon,  and  we'll 
have  one  .of  those  informal  chafing-dish  suppers  that 
we  used  to  enjoy  so  much." 

"  Later,"  said  Dawe.  **  When  I  get  another  shirt. 
And  now  I'll  tell  you  my  scheme.  When  I  was  about 
to  leave  home  after  breakfast  • —  if  you  can  call  tea  and 
oatmeal  breakfast  —  Louise  told  me  she  was  going  to 
visit  her  aunt  in  Eighty-ninth  Street.  She  said  she 
would  return  home  at  three  o'clock.  She  is  always  on 
time  to  a  minute.  It  is  now  — " 

Dawe  glanced  toward  the  editor's  watch  pocket. 

"  Twenty-seven  minutes  to  three,"  said  Westbrook, 
scanning  his  time-piece. 

"  We  have  just  enough  time,"  said  Dawe.     "  We  will 


252  Strictly  Bu-siness 

go  to  my  flat  at  once.  I  will  write  a  note,  address  it  to 
her  and  leave  it  on  the  table  where  she  will  see  it  as  she 
enters  the  door.  You  and  I  will  be  in  the  dining-room 
concealed  by  the  portieres.  In  that  note  I'll  say  that  I 
have  fled  from  her  forever  with  an  affinity  who  under- 
stands the  needs  of  my  artistic  soul  as  she  never  did. 
When  she  reads  it  we  will  observe  her  actions  and  hear 
her  words.  Then  we  will  know  which  theory  is  the  cor- 
rect one  —  yours  or  mine." 

'*  Oh,  never ! "  exclaimed  the  editor,  shaking  his  head. 
**  That  would  be  inexcusably  cruel.  I  could  not  consent 
to  have  Mrs.  Dawe's  feelings  played  upon  in  such  a 
manner." 

"  Brace  up,"  said  the  writer.  '*  I  guess  I  think  as 
much  of  her  as  you  do.  It's  for  her  benefit  as  well 
as  mine.  Fve  got  to  get  a  market  for  my  stories  in 
some  way.  It  won't  hurt  Louise.  She's  healthy  and 
sound.  Her  heart  goes  as  strong  as  a  ninety-eight-cent 
watch.  It'll  last  for  only  a  minute,  and  then  I'll  step 
out  and  explain  to  her.  You  really  owe  it  to  me  to 
give  me  the  chance,  Westbrook." 

Editor  Westbrook  at  length  yielded,  though  but  half 
willingly.  And  in  the  half  of  him  that  consented  lurked 
the  vivisectionist  that  is  in  all  of  us.  Let  him  who  has 
not  used  the  scalpel  rise  and  stand  in  his  place.  Pity 
His  that  there  are  not  enough  rabbits  and  guinea-pigs  to 
go  around. 


Proof  of  the  Pudding  253 

The  two  experimenters  in  Art  left  the  Square  and  hur- 
ried eastward  and  then  to  the  south  until  they  arrived 
in  the  Gramercy  neighborhood.  Within  its  high  iron 
railings  the  little  park  had  put  on  its  smart  coat  of  ver- 
nal green,  and  was  admiring  itself  in  its  fountain  mirror. 
Outside  the  railings  the  hollow  square  of  crumbling 
houses,  shells  of  a  bygone  gentry,  leaned  as  if  in  ghostly 
gossip  over  the  forgotten  doings  of  the  vanished  quality. 
Sic  transit  gloria  urbis. 

A  block  or  two  north  of  the  Park,  Dawe  steered  the 
editor  again  eastward,  then,  after  covering  a  short  dis- 
tance, into  a  lofty  but  narrow  flathouse  burdened  with 
a  floridly  over-decorated  fa9ade.  To  the  fifth  story 
they  toiled,  and  Dawe,  panting,  pushed  his  latch-key 
into  the  door  of  one  of  the  front  flats. 

When  the  door  opened  Editor  Westbrook  saw,  with 
feelings  of  pity,  how  meanly  and  meagerly  the  rooms 
were  furnished. 

"  Get  a  chair,  if  you  can  find  one,"  said  Dawe,  "  while 
I  hunt  up  pen  and  ink.  Hello,  what's  this?  Here's  a 
note  from  Louise.  She  must  have  left  it  there  when  she 
went  out  this  morning.** 

He  picked  up  an  envelope  that  lay  on  the  centre-table 
and  tore  it  open.  He  began  to  read  the  letter  that  he 
drew  out  of  it;  and  once  having  begun  it  aloud  he  so 
read  it  through  to  the  end.  These  are  the  words  that 
Editor  Westbrook  heard: 


254  Strictly  Business 

"  DEAR  SHACKLEFOKD  : 

"  By  the  time  you  get  this  I  will  be  about  a  hundred 
miles  away  and  still  a-going.  I've  got  a  place  in  the 
chorus  of  the  Occidental  Opera  Co.,  and  we  start  on  the 
road  to-day  at  twelve  o'clock.  I  didn't  want  to  starve 
to  death,  and  so  I  decided  to  make  my  own  living.  I'm 
not  coming  back.  Mrs.  Westbrook  is  going  with  me. 
'  She  said  she  was  tired  of  living  with  a  combination 
phonograph,  iceberg  and  dictionary,  and  she's  not  com- 
ing back,  either.  We've  been  practising  the  songs  and 
dances  for  two  months  on  the  quiet.  I  hope  you  will 
be  successful,  and  get  along  all  right !  Good-bye. 

"  LOUISE." 

Dawe  dropped  the  letter,  covered  his  face  with  his 
trembling  hands,  and  cried  out  in  a  deep,  vibrating 
voice : 

'*  My  God,  why  hast  thou  given  me  this  cup  to  drink? 
Since  she  is  false,  then  let  Thy  Heaven's  fairest  gifts, 
faith  and  love,  become  the  jesting  by-words  of  traitors 
and  fiends!  " 

.  Editor  Westbrook's  glasses  fell  to  the  floor.  The  fin- 
gers of  one  hand  fumbled  with  a  button  on  his  coat  as 
he  blurted  between  his  pale  lips : 

"  Say,  Shack,  ain't  that  a  hell  of  a  note?  Wouldn't 
that  knock  you  off  your  perch,  Shack?  Ain't  it  hell, 
now,  Shack  —  ain't  it?  " 


XX 

PAST  ONE  AT  RODNEY'S 

ONLY  on  the  lower  East  Side  of  New  York  do  tfe 
houses  of  Capulet  and  Montagu  survive.  There  they 
do  not  fight  by  the  book  of  arithmetic.  If  you  but  bite 
your  thumb  at  an  upholder  of  your  opposing  house  you 
have  work  cut  out  for  your  steel.  On  Broadway  you 
may  drag  your  man  along  a  dozen  blocks  by  his  nose, 
and  he  will  only  bawl  for  the  watch ;  but  in  the  domain 
of  the  East  Side  Tybalts  and  Mercutios  you  must  ob- 
serve the  niceties  of  deportment  to  the  wink  of  an  eye- 
lash and  to  an  inch  of  elbow  room  at  the  bar  when  its 
patrons  include  foes  of  your  house  and  kin. 

So,  when  Eddie  McManus,  known  to  the  Capulets  as 
Cork  McManus,  drifted  into  Dutch  Mike's  for  a  stein 
of  beer,  and  came  upon  a  bunch  of  Montagus  making 
merry  with  the  suds,  he  began  to  observe  the  strictest 
parliamentary  rules.  Courtesy  forbade  his  leaving  the 
saloon  with  his  thirst  unslaked;  caution  steered  him  to 
a  place  at  the  bar  where  the  mirror  supplied  the  cogni- 
zance of  the  enemy's  movements  that  his  indifferent  gaze 
seemed  to  disdain ;  experience  whispered  to  him  that  the 

finger  of  trouble  would  be  busy  among  the  chattering 

255 


256  Strictly  Business 

steins  at  Dutch  Mike's  that  night.  Close  by  his  side  drew 
Brick  deary,  his  Mercutio,  companion  of  his  perambu- 
lations. Thus  they  stood,  four  of  the  Mulberry  Hill 
Gang  and  two  of  the  Dry  Dock  Gang,  minding  their  P's 
and  Q's  so  solicitously  that  Dutch  Mike  kept  one  eye 
on  his  customers  and  the  other  on  an  open  space  beneath 
his  bar  in  which  it  was  his  custom  to  seek  safety  when- 
ever the  ominous  politeness  of  the  rival  associations  con- 
gealed into  the  shapes  of  bullets  and  cold  steel. 

But  we  have  not  to  do  with  the  wars  of  the  Mulberry 
Hills  and  the  Dry  Docks.  We  must  to  Rooney's,  where, 
on  the  most  blighted  dead  branch  of  the  tree  of  life,  a 
little  pale  orchid  shall  bloom. 

Overstrained  etiquette  at  last  gave  way.  It  is  not 
known  who  first  overstepped  the  bounds  of  punctilio; 
but  the  consequences  were  immediate.  Buck  Malone,  of 
the  Mulberry  Hills,  with  a  Dewey-like  swiftness,  got  an 
eight-inch  gun  swung  round  from  his  hurricane  deck. 
But  McManus's  simile  must  be  the  torpedo.  He  glided 
in  under  the  guns  and  slipped  a  scant  three  inches  of 
knife  blade  between  the  ribs  of  the  Mulberry  Hill 
cruiser.  Meanwhile  Brick  Cleary,  a  devotee  to  strategy. 
had  skimmed  across  the  lunch  counter  and  thrown  the 
switch  of  the  electrics,  leaving  the  combat  to  be  waged 
by  the  light  of  gunfire  alone.  Dutch  Mike  crawled 
from  his  haven  and  ran  into  the  street  crying  for  the 
watch  instead  of  for  a  Shakespeare  to  immortalize  the 
Cimmerian  shindy. 


Past  One  at  Ttooney's  257 

The  cop  came,  and  found  a  prostrate,  bleeding  Mon- 
tagu supported  by  three  distrait  and  reticent  followers 
of  the  House.  Faithful  to  the  ethics  of  the  gangs,  no 
one  knew  whence  the  hurt  came.  There  was  no  Capulet 
to  be  seen. 

"  Raus  mit  der  interrogatories,"  said  Buck  Malone  to 
the  officer.  "  Sure  I  know  who  done  it.  I  always  man- 
ages to  get  a  bird's  eye  view  of  any  guy  that  comes  up 
an'  makes  a  show  case  for  a  hardware  store  out  of  me. 
No.  I'm  not  telling  you  his  name.  I'll  settle  with  um 
meself .  Wow  —  ouch !  Easy,  boys !  Yes,  I'll  attend 
to  his  case  meself.  I'm  not  making  any  complaint." 

At  midnight  McManus  strolled  around  a  pile  of  lum- 
ber near  an  East  Side  dock,  and  lingered  in  the  vicinity 
of  a  certain  water  plug.  Brick  Cleary  drifted  casually 
to  the  trysting  place  ten  minutes  later.  "  He'll  maybe 
not  croak,"  said  Brick ;  "  and  he  won't  tell,  of  course. 
But  Dutch  Mike  did.  He  told  the  police  he  was  tired 
of  having  his  place  shot  up.  It's  unhandy  just  now, 
because  Tim  Corrigan's  in  Europe  for  a  week's  end  with 
Kings.  He'll  be  back  on  the  Kaiser  Williams  next 
Friday.  You'll  have  to  duck  out  of  sight  till  then. 
Tim'll  fix  it  up  all  right  for  us  when  he  comes  back." 

This  goes  to  explain  why  Cork  McManus  went  into 
Rooney's  one  night  and  there  looked  upon  the  bright, 
stranger  face  of  Romance  for  the  first  time  in  his  pre- 
carious career. 

Until  Tim   Corrigan   should  return   from  his  jaunt 


258  Strictly  ^Business 

among  Kings  and  Princes  and  hold  up  his  big  white  fin- 
ger in  private  offices,  it  was  unsafe  for  Cork  in  any  of 
the  old  haunts  of  his  gang.  So  he  lay,  perdu,  in  the 
high  rear  room  of  a  Capulet,  reading  pink  sporting 
sheets  and  cursing  the  slow  paddle  wheels  of  the  Kaiser. 
Wilhelm. 

It  was  on  Thursday  evening  that  Cork's  seclusion  be- 
came intolerable  to  him.  Never  a  hart  panted  for  water 
fountain  as  he  did  for  the  cool  touch  of  a  drifting  stein, 
for  the  firm  security  of  a  foot-rail  in  the  hollow  of  his 
shoe  and  the  quiet,  hearty  challenges  of  friendship  and 
repartee  along  and  across  the  shining  bars.  But  he 
must  avoid  the  district  where  he  was  known.  The  cops 
were  looking  for  him  everywhere,  for  news  was  scarce, 
and  the  newspapers  were  harping  again  on  the  failure  of 
the  police  to  suppress  the  gangs.  If  they  got  him  be- 
fore Corrigan  came  back,  the  big  white  finger  could  not 
be  uplifted;  it  would  be  too  late  then.  But  Corrigan 
would  be  home  the  next  day,  so  he  felt  sure  there  would 
be  small  danger  in  a  little  excursion  that  night  among 
the  crass  pleasures  that  represented  life  to  him. 

At  half-past  twelve  McManus  stood  in  a  darkish 
cross-town  street  looking  up  at  the  name  "  Rooney's," 
picked  out  by  incandescent  lights  against  a  signboard 
over  a  second-story  window.  He  had  heard  of  the  place 
as  a  tough  "  hang-out " ;  with  its  frequenters  and  its  lo- 
cality he  was  unfamiliar.  Guided  by  certain  unerring 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  259 

indications  common  to  all  such  resorts,  he  ascended  the 
stairs  and  entered  the  large  room  over  the  cafe. 

Here  were  some  twenty  or  thirty  tables,  at  this  time 
about  half-filled  with  Rooney's  guests.  Waiters  served 
drinks.  At  one  end  a  human  pianola  with  drugged  eyes 
hammered  the  keys  with  automatic  and  furious  unpre- 
cision.  At  merciful  intervals  a  waiter  would  roar  or 
squeak  a  song  —  songs  full  of  "  Mr.  Johnsons  "  and 
"  babes  "  and  "  coons  " —  historical  word  guaranties  of 
the  genuineness  of  African  melodies  composed  by  red 
waistcoated  young  gentlemen,  natives  of  the  cotton  fields 
and  rice  swamps  of  West  Twenty-eighth  Street. 

For  one  brief  moment  you  must  admire  Rooney  with 
me  as  he  receives,  seats,  manipulates,  and  chaffs  his 
guests.  He  is  twenty-nine.  He  has  Wellington's  nose, 
Dante's  chin,  the  cheek-bones  of  an  Iroquois,  the  smile 
of  Talleyrand,  Corbett's  foot  work,  and  the  poise  of  an 
eleven-year-old  East  Side  Central  Park  Queen  of  the 
May.  He  is  assisted  by  a  lieutenant  known  as  Frank, 
a  pudgy,  easy  chap,  swell-dressed,  who  goes  among  the 
tables  seeing  that  dull  care  does  not  intrude.  Now,  what 
is  there  about  Rooney's  to  inspire  all  this  pother?  It  is 
more  than  respectable  by  daylight;  stout  ladies  with 
children  and  mittens  and  bundles  and  unpedigreed  dogs 
drop  up  of  afternoons  for  a  stein  and  a  chat.  Even  by 
gaslight  the  diversions  are  melancholy  i'  the  mouth  — 
drink  and  rag-time,  and  an  occasional  surprise  when  the 


260  Strictly  Business 

waiter  swabs  the  suds  from  under  your  sticky  glass. 
There  is  an  answer.  Transmigration!  The  soul  of 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh  has  traveled  from  beneath  his  slashed 
doublet  to  a  kindred  home  under  Rooney's  visible  plaid 
waistcoat.  Rooney's  is  twenty  years  ahead  of  the  times. 
Rooney  has  removed  the  embargo.  Rooney  has  spread 
his  cloak  upon  the  soggy  crossing  of  public  opinion,  and 
any  Elizabeth  who  treads  upon  it  is  as  much  a  queen  as 
another.  Attend  to  the  revelation  of  the  secret.  In 
Rooney's  ladies  may  smoke ! 

McManus  sat  down  at  a  vacant  table.  He  paid  for 
the  glass  of  beer  that  he  ordered,  tilted  his  narrow- 
brimmed  derby  to  the  back  of  his  brick-dust  head, 
twined  his  feet  among  the  rungs  of  his  chair,  and  heaved 
a  sigh  of  contentment  from  the  breathing  spaces  of  his 
innermost  soul;  for  this  mud  honey  was  clarified  sweet- 
ness to  his  taste.  The  sham  gaiety,  the  hectic  glow  of 
counterfeit  hospitality,  the  self-conscious,  joyless  laugh- 
ter, the  wine-born  warmth,  the  loud  music  retrieving  the 
hour  from  frequent  whiles  of  awful  and  corroding  si- 
lence, the  presence  of  well-clothed  and  frank-eyed  bene- 
ficiaries of  Rooney's  removal  of  the  restrictions  laid  upon 
the  weed,  the  familiar  blended  odors  of  soaked  lemon 
peel,  flat  beer,  and  peau  d'Espagne —  all  these  were 
manna  to  Cork  McManus,  hungry  for  his  week  in  the 
desert  of  the  Capulet's  high  rear  room. 

A  girl,  alone,  entered  Rooney's,  glanced  around  with 
leisurely  swiftness,  and  sat  opposite  McManus  at  his 


Past  One  at  Ttooney's  261 

table.  Her  eyes  rested  upon  him  for  two  seconds  in 
the  look  with  which  woman  reconnoitres  all  men  whom 
she  for  the  first  time  confronts.  In  that  space  of  time 
she  will  decide  upon  one  of  two  things  —  either  to  scream 
for  the  police,  or  that  she  may  marry  him  later  on. 

Her  brief  inspection  concluded,  the  girl  laid  on  the 
table  a  worn  red  morocco  shopping  bag  with  the  inev- 
itable top-gallant  sail  of  frayed  lace  handkerchief  flying 
from  a  corner  of  it.  After  she  had  ordered  a  small  beer 
from  the  immediate  waiter  she  took  from  her  bag  a  box 
of  cigarettes  and  lighted  one  with  slightly  exaggerated 
ease  of  manner.  Then  she  looked  again  in  the  eyes  of 
Cork  McManus  and  smiled. 

Instantly  the  doom  of  each  was  sealed. 

The  unqualified  desire  of  a  man  to  buy  clothes  and 
build  fires  for  a  woman  for  a  whole  lifetime  at  first  sight 
of  her  is  not  uncommon  among  that  humble  portion  of 
humanity  that  does  not  care  for  Bradstreet  or  coats-of- 
arms  or  Shaw's  plays.  Love  at  first  sight  has  occurred 
a  time  or  two  in  high  life ;  but,  as  a  rule,  the  extempore 
mania  is  to  be  found  among  unsophisticated  creatures 
such  as  the  dove,  the  blue-tailed  dingbat,  and  the  ten- 
dollar-a-week  clerk.  Poets,  subscribers  to  all  fiction 
magazines,  and  schatchens,  take  notice. 

With  the  exchange  of  the  mysterious  magnetic  current 
came  to  each  of  them  the  instant  desire  to  lie,  pretend, 
dazzle,  and  deceive,  which  is  the  worst  thing  about  the 
hypocritical  disorder  known  as  love. 


262  Strictly  'Business 

"  Have  another  beer?  "  suggested  Cork.  In  his  cii- 
cle  the  phrase  was  considered  to  be  a  card,  accompanied 
by  a  letter  of  introduction  and  references. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  the  girl,  raising  her  eyebrows  and 
choosing  her  conventional  words  carefully.  "I  — • 
merely  dropped  in  for  —  a  slight  refreshment."  The 
cigarette  between  her  fingers  seemed  to  require  explana- 
tion. "  My  aunt  is  a  Russian  lady,"  she  concluded, 
"  and  we  often  have  a  post  perannual  cigarette  after 
dinner  at  home," 

"  Cheese  it !  "  said  Cork,  whom  society  airs  oppressed. 
**  Your  fingers  are  as  yellow  as  mine." 

"  Say,"  said  the  girl,  blazing  upon  him  with  low- 
voiced  indignation,  "what  do  you  think  I  am?  Say, 
who  do  you  think  you  are  talking  to?  What?  " 

She  was  pretty  to  look  at.  Her  eyes  were  big,  brown, 
intrepid  and  bright.  Under  her  flat  sailor  hat,  planted 
jauntily  on  one  side,  her  crinkly,  tawny  hair  parted  and 
was  drawn  back,  low  and  massy,  in  a  thick,  pendant  knot 
behind.  The  roundness  of  girlhood  still  lingered  in  her 
chin  and  neck,  but  her  cheeks  and  fingers  were  thinning 
slightly.  She  looked  upon  the  world  with  defiance,  sus- 
picion, and  sullen  wonder.  Her  smart,  short  tan  coat 
was  soiled  and  expensive.  Two  inches  below  her  black 
dress  dropped  the  lowest  flounce  of  a  heliotrope  silk 
underskirt. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,"  said  Cork,  looking  at  her  admir- 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  263 

ingly.  "  I  didn't  mean  anything.  Sure,  it's  no  harm 
to  smoke,  Maudy." 

"  Rooney's,"  said  the  girl,  softened  at  once  by  his 
amends,  "  is  the  only  place  I  know  where  a  lady  can 
smoke.  Maybe  it  ain't  a  nice  habit,  but  aunty  lets  us 
at  home.  And  my  name  ain't  Maudy,  if  you  please ; 
it's  Ruby  Delamere." 

"  That's  a  swell  handle,"  said  Cork  approvingly. 
"  Mine's  McManus  — >  Cor  —  er  —  Eddie  McManus." 

"  Oh,  you  can't  help  that,"  laughed  Ruby.  "  Don't 
apologize." 

Cork  looked  seriously  at  the  big  clock  on  Rooney's 
wall.  The  girl's  ubiquitous  eyes  took  in  the  movement. 

"  I  know  it's  late,"  she  said,  reaching  for  her  bag ; 
"  but  you  know  how  you  want  a  smoke  when  you  want 
one.  Ain't  Rooney's  all  right?  I  never  saw  anything 
wrong  here.  This  is  twice  I've  been  in.  I  work  in  a 
bookbindery  on  Third  Avenue.  A  lot  of  us  girls  have 
been  working  overtime  three  nights  a  week.  They  won't 
let  you  smoke  there,  of  course.  I  just  dropped  in  here 
on  my  way  home  for  a  puff.  Ain't  it  all  right  in  here? 
If  it  ain't,  I  won't  come  any  more." 

"  It's  a  little  bit  late  for  you  to  be  out  alone  any- 
where," said  Cork.  "I'm  not  wise  to  this  particular 
joint;  but  anyhow  you  don't  want  to  have  your  picture 
taken  in  it  for  a  present  to  your  Sunday  School  teacher. 
Have  one  more  beer,  and  then  say  I  take  you  home." 


264  Strictly  "Business 

"  But  I  don't  know  you,"  said  the  girl,  with  fine  scru* 
pulosity.  "  I  don't  accept  the  company  of  gentlemen 
I  ain't  acquainted  with.  My  aunt  never  would  allow 
that." 

"  Why,"  said  Cork  McManus,  pulling  his  ear,  "  I'm 
the  latest  thing  in  suitings  with  side  vents  and  bell  skirt 
when  it  comes  to  escortin'  a  lady.  You  bet  you'll  find 
me  all  right,  Ruby.  And  I'll  give  you  a  tip  as  to  who 
I  am.  My  governor  is  one  of  the  hottest  cross-buns  o£ 
the  Wall  Street  push.  Morgan's  cab  horse  casts  a  shoe 
every  time  the  old  man  sticks  his  head  out  the  window. 
Me!  Well,  I'm  in  trainin'  down  the  Street.  The  old 
man's  goin'  to  put  a  seat  on  the  Stock  Exchange  in  my 
stockin'  my  next  birthday.  But  it  all  sounds  like  a 
lemon  to  me.  What  I  like  is  golf  and  yachtin'  and — • 
er  —  well,  say  a  corkin'  fast  ten-round  bout  between, 
welter-weights  with  walkin'  gloves." 

"  I  guess  you  can  walk  to  the  door  with  me,"  said  the 
girl  hesitatingly,  but  with  a  certain  pleased  flutter. 
"  Still  I  never  heard  anything  extra  good  about  Wall 
Street  brokers,  or  sports  who  go  to  prize  fights,  either. 
Ain't  you  got  any  other  recommendations  ?  " 

"  I  think  you're  the  swellest  looker  I've  had  my  lamps 
on  in  little  old  New  York,"  said  Cork  impressively. 

"  That'll  be  about  enough  of  that,  now.  Ain't  you 
the  kidder !  "  She  modified  her  chiding  words  by  a  deep, 
long,  beaming,  smile-embellished  look  at  her  cavalier, 
drink  our  beer  before  we  go,  ha?  " 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  265 

A  waiter  sang.  The  tobacco  smoke  grew  denser, 
drifting  and  rising  in  spirals,  waves,  tilted  layers,  cumu- 
lus clouds,  cataracts  and  suspended  fogs  like  some  fifth 
element  created  from  the  ribs  of  the  ancient  four. 
Laughter  and  chat  grew  louder,  stimulated  by  Rooney's 
liquids  and  Rooney's  gallant  hospitality  to  Lady  Nico- 
tine. 

One  o'clock  struck.  Down-stairs  there  was  a  sound 
of  closing  and  locking  doors.  Frank  pulled  down  the 
green  shades  of  the  front  windows  carefully.  Rooney 
went  below  in  the  dark  hall  and  stood  at  the  front  door, 
his  cigarette  cached  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Thence- 
forth whoever  might  seek  admittance  must  present  a 
countenance  familiar  to  Rooney's  hawk's  eye  —  the 
countenance  of  a  true  sport. 

Cork  McManus  and  the  bookbindery  girl  conversed 
absorbedly,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table.  Their  glasses 
of  beer  were  pushed  to  one  side,  scarcely  touched,  with 
the  foam  on  them  sunken  to  a  thin  white  scum.  Since 
the  stroke  of  one  the  stale  pleasures  of  Rooney's  had 
become  renovated  and  spiced ;  not  by  any  addition  to  the 
list  of  distractions,  but  because  from  that  moment  the 
sweets  became  stolen  ones.  The  flattest  glass  of  beer 
acquired  the  tang  of  illegality ;  the  mildest  claret  punch 
struck  a  knockout  blow  at  law  and  order;  the  harmless 
and  genial  company  became  outlaws,  defying  authority 
and  rule.  For  after  the  stroke  of  one  in  such  places  as 
Rooney's,  where  neither  bed  nor  board  is  to  be  had, 


266  Strictly  Business 

drink  may  not  be  set  before  the  thirsty  of  the  city  of 
the  four  million.  It  is  the  law. 

"  Say,"  said  Cork  McManus,  almost  covering  the  ta- 
ble with  his  eloquent  chest  and  elbows,  "  was  that  dead 
straight  about  you  workin'  in  the  bookbindery  and  livin* 
At  home  —  and  just  happenin'  in  here  —  and  —  and  all 
that  spiel  you  gave  me  ?  " 

"  Sure  it  was,"  answered  the  girl  with  spirit.  "  Why, 
jrhat  do  you  think?  Do  you  suppose  I'd  lie  to  you? 
Go  down  to  the  shop  and  ask  'em.  I  handed  it  to  you 
»n  the  level." 

"  On  the  dead  level?  "  said  Cork.  "  That's  the  way 
jf  want  it ;  because  — " 

"  Because  what  ?  " 

"  I  throw  up  my  hands,"  said  Cork.  "  You've  got 
me  goin'.  You're  the  girl  I've  been  lookin'  for.  Will 
you  keep  company  with  me,  Ruby  ?  " 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  —  Eddie?  " 

"  Surest  thing.  But  I  wanted  a  straight  story  about 
—  about  yourself,  you  know.  When  a  fellow  has  a  girl 
i —  a  steady  girl  —  she's  got  to  be  all  right,  you  know. 
She's  got  to  be  straight  goods." 

"  You'll  find  I'll  be  straight  goods,  Eddie." 

"  Of  course  you  will.  I  believe  what  you  told  me. 
But  you  can't  blame  me  for  wantin'  to  find  out.  You 
don't  see  many  girls  smokin*  cigarettes  in  places  like 
Rooney's  after  midnight  that  are  like  you." 

The  girl  flushed  a  little  and  lowered  her  eyes.     "  I 


Past  One  at  Itooney's  267 

see  that  now,"  she  said  meekly.  "  I  didn't  know  how 
bad  it  looked.  But  I  won't  do  it  any  more.  And  I'll 
go  straight  home  every  night  and  stay  there.  And  I'll 
give  up  cigarettes  if  you  say  so,  Eddie  —  I'll  cut  'em 
out  from  this  minute  on." 

Cork's  air  became  judicial,  proprietary,  condemna- 
tory, yet  sympathetic.  "  A  lady  can  smoke,"  he  de- 
cided, slowly,  "  at  times  and  places.  Why  ?  Because 
it's  bein'  a  lady  that  helps  her  to  pull  it  off." 

"  I'm  going  to  quit.  There's  nothing  to  it,"  said  the 
girl.  She  flicked  the  stub  of  her  cigarette  to  the 
floor. 

"  At  times  and  places,"  repeated  Cork.  "  When  I  call 
round  for  you  of  evenin's  we'll  hunt  out  a  dark  bench  in 
Stuyvesant  Square  and  have  a  puff  or  two.  But  no  more 
Rooney's  at  one  o'clock  —  see  ?  " 

"Eddie,  do  you  really  like  me?"  The  girl  searched 
his  hard  but  frank  features  eagerly  with  anxious  eyes. 

"  On  the  dead  level." 

"  When  are  you  coming  to  see  me  —  where  I  live  ?  " 

"  Thursday  —  day  after  to-morrow  evenin'.  That 
suit  you?  " 

"  Fine.  I'll  be  ready  for  you.  Come  about  seven. 
Walk  to  the  door  with  me  to-night  and  I'll  show  you 
where  I  live.  Don't  forget,  now.  And  don't  you  go  to 
see  any  other  girls  before  then,  mister !  I  bet  you  will, 
though." 

"  On  the  dead  level,"  said  Cork,  "  you  make  'em  all 


268  Strictly  Business 

look  like  rag-dolls  to  me.  Honest,  you  do.  I  know 
when  I'm  suited.  On  the  dead  level,  I  do." 

Against  the  front  door  down-stairs  repeated  heavy 
blows  were  delivered.  The  loud  crashes  resounded  in 
the  room  above.  Only  a  trip-hammer  or  a  policeman's 
foot  could  have  been  the  author  of  those  sounds. 
Rooney  jumped  like  a  bullfrog  to  a  corner  of  the  room, 
turned  off  the  electric  lights  and  hurried  swiftly  below. 
The  room  was  left  utterly  dark  except  for  the  winking 
red  glow  of  cigars  and  cigarettes.  A  second  volley  of 
crashes  came  up  from  the  assaulted  door.  A  little, 
rustling,  murmuring  panic  moved  among  the  besieged 
guests.  Frank,  cool,  smooth,  reassuring,  could  be  seen 
in  the  rosy  glow  of  the  burning  tobacco,  going  from 
table  to  table. 

"  All  keep  still !  "  was  his  caution.  "  Don't  talk  or 
make  any  noise!  Everything  will  be  all  right.  Now, 
don't  feel  the  slightest  alarm.  We'll  take  care  of  you 
all." 

Ruby  felt  across  the  table  until  Cork's  firm  hand 
closed  upon  hers.  "  Are  you  afraid,  Eddie  ? "  she 
whispered.  "  Are  you  afraid  you'll  get  a  free  ride  ?  " 

"  Nothin*  doin'  in  the  teeth-chatterin'  line,"  said 
Cork.  "  I  guess  Rooney's  been  slow  with  his  envelope. 
Don't  you  worry,  girly ;  I'll  look  out  for  you  all  right." 

Yet  Mr.  McManus's  ease  was  only  skin-  and  muscle- 
deep.  With  the  police  looking  everywhere  for  Buck 
Malone's  assailant,  and  with  Corrigan  still  on  the  ocean 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  269 

wave,  he  felt  that  to  be  caught  in  a  police  raid  would 
mean  an  ended  career  for  him.  And  just  when  he  had 
met  Ruby,  too !  He  wished  he  had  remained  in  the  high 
rear  room  of  the  true  Capulet  reading  the  pink  extras. 

Rooney  seemed  to  have  opened  the  front  door  below 
and  engaged  the  police  in  conference  in  the  dark  hall. 
The  wordless  low  growl  of  their  voices  came  up  the  stair- 
way. Frank  made  a  wireless  news  station  of  himself  at 
the  upper  door.  Suddenly  he  closed  the  door,  hurried 
to  the  extreme  rear  of  the  room  and  lighted  a  dim  gas 
jet. 

"  This  way,  everybody !  "  he  called  sharply.  "  In  a 
hurry ;  but  no  noise,  please !  " 

The  guests  crowded  in  confusion  to  the  rear.  Roon- 
ey's lieutenant  swung  open  a  panel  in  the  wall,  over- 
looking the  back  yard,  revealing  a  ladder  already  placed 
for  the  escape. 

"  Down  and  out,  everybody  !  "  he  commanded.  "  La- 
dies first !  Less  talking,  please !  Don't  crowd !  There's 
no  danger." 

Among  the  last,  Cork  and  Ruby  waited  their  turn  at 
the  open  panel.  Suddenly  she  swept  him  aside  and  clung 
to  his  arm  fiercely. 

"  Before  we  go  out,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear  — "  be- 
fore anything  happens,  tell  me  again,  Eddie,  do  you 
1  —  do  you  really  like  me  ?  " 

"  On  the  dead  level,"  said  Cork,  holding  her  close  with 
one  arm,  "  when  it  comes  to  you,  I'm  all  in." 


270  Strictly  Business 

When  they  turned  they  found  they  were  lost  and  in 
darkness.  The  last  of  the  fleeing  customers  had  de- 
scended. Half  way  across  the  yard  they  bore  the  lad- 
der, stumbling,  giggling,  hurrying  to  place  it  against  an 
adjoining  low  building  over  the  roof  of  which  lay  their 
only  route  to  safety. 

"  We  may  as  well  sit  down,"  said  Cork  grimly. 
"  Maybe  Rooney  will  stand  the  cops  off,  anyhow." 

They  sat  at  a  table;  and  their  hands  came  together 
again. 

A  number  of  men  then  entered  the  dark  room,  feel- 
ing their  way  about.  One  of  them,  Rooney  himself, 
found  the  switch  and  turned  on  the  electric  light.  The 
other  man  was  a  cop  of  the  old  regime  —  a  big  cop,  a 
thick  cop,  a  fuming,  abrupt  cop  —  not  a  pretty  cop. 
He  went  up  to  the  pair  at  the  table  and  sneered  fa- 
miliarly at  the  girl. 

"  What  are  youse  doin'  in  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Dropped  in  for  a  smoke,"  said  Cork  mildly. 

"  Had  any  drinks  ?  " 

"  Not  later  than  one  o'clock." 

"  Get  out  —  quick !  "  ordered  the  cop.  Then,  "  Sit 
down  !  "  he  countermanded. 

He  took  off  Cork's  hat  roughly  and  scrutinized  him 
shrewdly.  "  Your  name's  McManus." 

"  Bad  guess,"  said  Cork.     "  It's  Peterson." 

"  Cork  McManus,  or  something  like  that,"  said  the 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  271 

cop.  "  You  put  a  knife  into  a  man  in  Dutch  Mike's 
saloon  a  week  ago." 

"  Aw,  forget  it ! "  said  Cork,  who  perceived  a  shade 
of  doubt  in  the  officer's  tones.  "  You've  got  my  mug 
mixed  with  somebody  else's." 

"  Have  I  ?  Well,  you'll  come  to  the  station  with  me, 
anyhow,  and  be  looked  over.  The  description  fits  you 
all  right."  The  cop  twisted  his  fingers  under  Cork's 
collar.  "  Come  on !  "  he  ordered  roughly. 

Cork  glanced  at  Ruby.  She  was  pale,  and  her  thin 
nostrils  quivered.  Her  quick  eye  danced  from  one  man's 
face  to  the  other  as  they  spoke  or  moved.  What  hard 
luck  !  Cork  was  thinking  —  Corrigan  on  the  briny ;  and 
Ruby  met  and  lost  almost  within  an  hour!  Somebody 
at  the  police  station  would  recognize  him,  without  a 
doubt.  Hard  luck! 

But  suddenly  the  girl  sprang  up  and  hurled  herself 
with  both  arms  extended  against  the  cop.  His  hold  on 
Cork's  collar  was  loosened  and  he  stumbled  back  two  or 
three  paces. 

"  Don't  go  so  fast,  Maguire !  "  she  cried  in  shrill  fury. 
"  Keep  your  hands  off  my  man  !  You  know  me,  and  you 
know  I'm  givin'  you  good  advice.  Don't  you  touch  him 
again !  He's  not  the  guy  you  are  lookin'  for  —  I'll 
stand  for  that." 

"  See  here,  Fanny,"  said  the  Cop,  red  and  angry,  "  I'll 
take  you,  too,  if  you  don't  look  out !  How  do  you  know 


272  Strictly  Business 

this  ain't  the  man  I  want?  What  are  you  doing  in  here 
with  him?  " 

"How  do  I  know?"  said  the  girl,  flaming  red  and 
white  by  turns.  "  Because  I've  known  him  a  year. 
He's  mine.  Oughtn't  I  to  know  ?  And  what  am  I  doin* 
here  with  him?  That's  easy." 

She  stooped  low  and  reached  down  somewhere  into  a 
swirl  of  flirted  draperies,  heliotrope  and  black.  An  elas- 
tic snapped,  she  threw  on  the  table  toward  Cork-  a  folded 
wad  of  bills.  The  money  slowly  straightened  itself  with 
little  leisurely  jerks. 

"  Take  that,  Jimmy,  and  let's  go,"  said  the  girl. 
"  I'm  declarin'  the  usual  dividends,  Maguire,"  she  said 
to  the  officer.  "  You  had  your  usual  five-dollar  graft  at 
the  usual  corner  at  ten." 

"A  lie ! "  said  the  cop,  turning  purple.  "  You  go 
on  my  beat  again  and  I'll  arrest  you  every  time  I  see 
you." 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  the  girl.  "  And  I'll  tell  you 
why.  Witnesses  saw  me  give  you  the  money  to-night, 
and  last  week,  too.  I've  been  getting  fixed  for  you." 

Cork  put  the  wad  of  money  carefully  into  his  pocket, 
and  said :  "  Come  on,  Fanny ;  let's  have  some  chop 
suey  before  we  go  home." 

"  Clear  out,  quick,  both  of  you,  or  I'll  — " 

The  cop's  bluster  trailed  away  into  inconsequentiality. 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  the  two  halted.  Cork 
handed  back  the  money  without  a  word.  The  girl  took 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  273 

it  and  slipped  it  slowly  into  her  hand-bag.  Her  expres- 
sion was  the  same  she  had  worn  when  she  entered  Roon- 
ej's  that  night  —  she  looked  upon  the  world  with  defi- 
ance, suspicion  and  sullen  wonder. 

"  I  guess  I  might  as  well  say  good-by  here,"  she  said 
dull}*.  "  You  won't  want  to  see  me  again,  of  course. 
Will  you  —  shake  hands  —  Mr.  McManus." 

"  I  mightn't  have  got  wise  if  you  hadn't  give  the  snap 
away,"  said  Cork.  "  Why  did  you  do  it?  " 

"  You'd  have  been  pinched  if  I  hadn't.  That's  why. 
Ain't  that  reason  enough  ?  "  Then  she  began  to  cry. 
"  Honest,  Eddie,  I  was  goin'  to  be  the  best  girl  in  the 
world.  I  hated  to  be  what  I  am ;  I  hated  men ;  I  was 
ready  almost  to  die  when  I  saw  you.  And  you  seemed 
different  from  everybody  else.  And  when  I  found  you 
liked  me,  too,  why,  I  thought  I'd  make  you  believe  I 
was  good,  and  I  was  goin'  to  be  good.  When  you  asked 
to  come  to  my  house  and  see  me,  why,  I'd  have  died 
rather  than  do  anything  wrong  after  that.  But  what's 
the  use  of  talking  about  it?  I'll  say  good-by,  if  you 
will,  Mr.  McManus." 

Cork  was  pulling  at  his  ear.  "  I  knifed  Malone," 
said  he.  "  I  was  the  one  the  cop  wanted." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  girl  listlessly.  "  It 
didn't  make  any  difference  about  that." 

"  That  was  all  hot  air  about  Wall  Street.  I  don't  do 
nothin'  but  hang  out  with  a  tough  gang  on  the  East 
Side." 


274  Strictly  Business 

"  That  was  all  right,  too,"  repeated  the  girl.  "  It 
didn't  make  any  difference." 

Cork  straightened  himself,  and  pulled  his  hat  down 
low.  "  I  could  get  a  job  at  O'Brien's,"  he  said  aloud, 
but  to  himself. 

"  Good-by,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Come  on,"  said  Cork,  taking  her  arm.  **  I  know  a 
place." 

Two  blocks  away  he  turned  with  her  up  the  steps  of  a 
red  brick  house  facing  a  little  park. 

"  What  house  is  this  ?  "  she  asked,  drawing  back. 
"  Why  are  you  going  in  there  ?  " 

A  street  lamp  shone  brightly  in  front.  There  was 
a  brass  nameplate  at  one  side  of  the  closed  front  doors. 
Cork  drew  her  firmly  up  the  steps.  "  Read  that,"  said 
he. 

She  looked  at  the  name  on  the  plate,  and  gave  a  cry 
between  a  moan  and  a  scream.  "  No,  no,  no,  Eddie ! 
Oh,  my  God,  no  !  I  won't  let  you  do  that  —  not  now  ! 
Let  me  go !  You  shan't  do  that !  You  can't  —  you 
mus'n't !  Not  after  you  know !  No,  no  !  Come  away 
quick  !  Oh,  my  God !  Please,  Eddie,  come !  " 

Half  fainting,  she  reeled,  and  was  caught  in  the  bend 
of  his  arm.  Cork's  right  hand  felt  for  the  electric  but- 
ton and  pressed  it  long. 

Another  cop  —  how  quickly  they  scent  trouble  when 
trouble  is  on  the  wing !  —  came  along,  saw  them,  and 


Past  One  at  Rooney's  275 

ran  up  the  steps.     "  Here !     What  are  you  doing  with 
that  girl  ?  "  he  called  gruffly. 

"  She'll  be  all  right  in  a  minute,"  said  Cork.     "  It's  a 
•traigh-  deal." 

"  Reverend  Jeremiah  Jones,"  read  the  cop  from  the 
door-plate  with  true  detective  cunning. 

"  Correct,"  said  Cork.     "  On  the  dead  level, 
goin'  to  get  married." 


XXI 

THE  VENTURERS 

JLjET  the  story  wreck  itself  on  the  spreading  rails  of 
the  Non  Sequitur  Limited,  if  it  will ;  first  you  must  take 
your  seat  in  the  observation  car  "  Raison  d'etre  "  for 
one  moment.  It  is  for  no  longer  than  to  consider  a 
brief  essay  on  the  subject  —  let  us  call  it:  "What's 
Around  the  Corner." 

Omne  mu/ndiis  in  duas  paries  divisum  est  —  men  who 
wear  rubbers  and  pay  poll-taxes,  and  men  who  discover 
new  continents.  There  are  no  more  continents  to  dis- 
cover; but  by  the  time  overshoes  are  out  of  date  and  the 
poll  has  developed  into  an  income  tax,  the  other  half 
will  be  paralleling  the  canals  of  Mars  with  radium  rail- 
ways. 

Fortune,  Chance,  and  Adventure  are  given  as  synony- 
mous in  the  dictionaries.  To  the  knowing  each  has  a 
different  meaning.  Fortune  is  a  prize  to  be  won.  Ad- 
venture is  the  road  to  it.  Chance  is  what  may  lurk  in 
the  shadows  at  the  roadside.  The  face  of  Fortune  is 
radiant  and  alluring;  that  of  Adventure  flushed  and  he- 
roic. The  face  of  Chance  is  the  beautiful  countenance 

—  perfect  because  vague  and  dream-born  —  that  we  see 

876 


The  Venturers  277 

in  our  tea-cups  at  breakfast  while  we  growl  over  our 
chops  and  toast. 

The  VENTURER  is  one  who  keeps  his  eye  on  the  hedge- 
rows and  wayside  groves  and  meadows  while  he  travels 
the  road  to  Fortune.  That  is  the  difference  between 
him  and  the  Adventurer.  Eating  the  forbidden  fruit 
was  the  best  record  ever  made  by  a  Venturer.  Trying 
to  prove  that  it  happened  is  the  highest  work  of  the 
Adventuresome.  To  be  either  is  disturbing  to  the  cos- 
mogony of  creation.  So,  as  bracket-sawed  and  city- 
directoried  citizens,  let  us  light  our  pipes,  chide  the  chil- 
dren and  the  cat,  arrange  ourselves  in  the  willow  rocker 
under  the  flickering  gas  jet  at  the  coolest  window  and 
scan  this  little  tale  of  two  modern  followers  of  Chance. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  that  story  about  the  man  from 
the  West  ?  "  asked  Billinger,  in  the  little  dark-oak  room 
to  your  left  as  you  penetrate  the  interior  of  the  Pow- 
hatan  Club. 

"  Doubtless,"  said  John  Reginald  Forster,  rising  and 
leaving  the  room. 

Forster  got  his  straw  hat  (  straws  will  be  in  and  maybe 
out  again  long  before  this  is  printed)  from  the  check- 
room boy,  and  walked  out  of  the  air  (as  Hamlet  says). 
Billinger  was  used  to  having  his  stories  insulted  and 
would  not  mind.  Forster  was  in  his  favorite  mood  and 
wanted  to  go  away  from  anywhere.  A  man,  in  order  to 
get  on  good  terms  with  himself,  must  have  his  opinions 


278  Strictly  Business 

corroborated  and  his  moods  matched  by  some  one  else. 
(I  had  written  that  "  somebody  ";  but  an  A.  D.  T.  boy 
who  once  took  a  telegram  for  me  pointed  out  that  I  could 
save  money  by  using  the  compound  word.  This  is  a 
vice  versa  case.) 

Forster*s  favorite  mood  was  that  of  greatly  desiring 
to  be  a  follower  of  Chance.  He  was  a  Venturer  by  na- 
ture, but  convention,  birth,  tradition  and  the  narrowing 
influences  of  the  tribe  of  Manhattan  had  denied  him 
full  privilege.  He  had  trodden  all  the  main-traveled 
thoroughfares  and  many  of  the  side  roads  that  are  sup- 
posed to  relieve  the  tedium  of  life.  But  none  had  suf- 
ficed. The  reason  was  that  he  knew  what  was  to  be 
found  at  the  end  of  every  street.  He  knew  from  experi- 
ence and  logic  almost  precisely  to  what  end  each  digres- 
sion from  routine  must  lead.  He  found  a  depressing 
monotony  in  all  the  variations  that  the  music  of  his 
sphere  had  grafted  upon  the  tune  of  life.  He  had  not 
learned  that,  although  the  world  was  made  round,  the 
circle  has  been  squared,  and  that  its  true  interest  is  to 
be  found  in  "  What's  Around  the  Corner." 

Forster  walked  abroad  aimlessly  from  the  Powhatan, 
trying  not  to  tax  either  his  judgment  or  his  desire  as  to 
what  streets  he  traveled.  He  would  have  been  glad  to 
lose  his  way  if  it  were  possible ;  but  he  had  no  hope  of 
that.  Adventure  and  Fortune  move  at  your  beck  and 
call  in  the  Greater  City ;  but  Chance  is  oriental.  She  is 
a  veiled  lady  in  a  sedan  chair,  protected  by  a  special  traf- 


The  Venturers  279 

fie  squad  of  dragomans.  Crosstown,  uptown,  and  down- 
town you  may  move  without  seeing  her. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour's  stroll,  Forster  stood  on  a 
corner  of  a  broad,  smooth  avenue,  looking  disconsolately 
across  it  at  a  picturesque  old  hotel  softly  but  brilliantly 
lit.  Disconsolately,  because  he  knew  that  he  must  dine ; 
and  dining  in  that  hotel  was  no  venture.  It  was  one  of 
his  favorite  caravansaries,  and  so  silent  and  swift  would 
be  the  service  and  so  delicately  choice  the  food,  that  he 
regretted  the  hunger  that  must  be  appeased  by  the 
"  dead  perfection "  of  the  place's  cuisine.  Even  the 
music  there  seemed  to  be  always  playing  da  capo. 

Fancy  came  to  him  that  he  would  dine  at  some  cheap, 
even  dubious,  restaurant  lower  down  in  the  city,  where 
the  erratic  chefs  from  all  countries  of  the  world  spread 
their  national  cookery  for  the  omnivorous  American. 
Something  might  happen  there  out  of  the  routine  —  he 
might  come  upon  a  subject  without  a  predicate,  a  road 
without  an  end,  a  question  without  an  answer,  a  cause 
without  an  effect,  a  gulf  stream  in  life's  salt  ocean.  He 
had  not  dressed  for  evening;  he  wore  a  dark  business 
suit  that  would  not  be  questioned  even  where  the  waiters 
served  the  spaghetti  in  their  shirt  sleeves. 

So  John  Reginald  Forster  began  to  search  his  clothes 
for  money ;  because  the  more  cheaply  you  dine,  the  more 
surely  must  you  pay.  All  of  the  thirteen  pockets,  large 
and  small,  of  his  business  suit  he  explored  carefully  and 
found  not  a  penny.  His  bank  book  showed  a  balance  of 


280  Strictly  Business 

five  figures  to  his  credit  in  the  Old  Ironsides  Trust  Com 
panj,  but  — 

Forster  became  aware  of  a  man  nearby  at  his  left 
hand  who  was  really  regarding  him  with  some  amuse- 
ment. He  looked  like  any  business  man  of  thirty  or 
so,  neatly  dressed  and  standing  in  the  attitude  of  one 
waiting  for  a  street  car.  But  there  was  no  car  line  on 
that  avenue.  So  his  proximity  and  unconcealed  curi- 
osity seemed  to  Forster  to  partake  of  the  nature  of  a 
personal  intrusion.  But,  as  he  was  a  consistent  seeker 
after  "  What's  Around  the  Corner,"  instead  of  mani- 
festing resentment  he  only  turned  a  half-embarrassed 
smile  upon  the  other's  grin  of  amusement. 

"  All  in  ?  "  asked  the  intruder,  drawing  nearer. 

"  Seems  so,"  said  Forster.  "  Now,  I  thought  there 
was  a  dollar  in  — " 

"  Oh,  T"  know,"  said  the  other  man,  with  a  laugh. 
"  But  there  wasn't.  I've  just  been  through  the  same 
process  myself,  as  I  was  coming  around  the  corner.  I 
found  in  an  upper  vest  pocket  —  I  don't  know  how  they 
got  there  —  exactly  two  pennies.  You  know  what  kind 
of  a  dinner  exactly  two  pennies  will  buy ! " 

"  You  haven't  dined,  then  ?  "  asked  Forster. 

"  I  have  not.  But  I  would  like  to.  Now,  I'll  make 
you  a  proposition.  You  look  like  a  man  who  would  take 
up  one.  Your  clothes  look  neat  and  respectable.  Ex- 
cuse personalities.  I  think  mine  will  pass  the  scrutiny 
of  a  head  waiter,  also.  Suppose  we  go  over  to  that 


The  Venturers  281 

hotel  and  dine  together.  We  will  choose  from  the  menu 
like  millionaires  —  or,  if  you  prefer,  like  gentlemen  in 
moderate  circumstances  dining  extravagantly  for  once. 
When  we  have  finished  we  will  match  with  my  two  pen- 
nies to  see  which  of  us  will  stand  the  brunt  of  the  house's 
displeasure  and  vengeance.  My  name  is  Ives.  I  think 
we  have  lived  in  the  same  station  of  life  —  before  our 
money  took  wings." 

"  You're  on,"  said  Forster,  joyfully. 

Here  was  a  venture  at  least  within  the  borders  of  the 
mysterious  country  of  Chance  —  anyhow,  it  promised 
something  better  than  the  stale  infestivity  of  a  table 
d'hote. 

The  two  were  soon  seated  at  a  corner  table  in  the  hotel 
dining  room.  Ives  chucked  one  of  his  pennies  across 
the  table  to  Forster. 

"  Match  for  which  of  us  gives  the  order,"  he  said. 

Forster  lost. 

Ives  laughed  and  began  to  name  liquids  and  viands  to 
the  waiter  with  the  absorbed  but  calm  deliberation  of  one 
who  was  to  the  menu  born.  Forster,  listening,  gave  his 
admiring  approval  of  the  order. 

"  I  am  a  man,"  said  Ives,  during  the  oysters,  "  who 
has  made  a  lifetime  search  after  the  to-be-continued-in- 
our-next.  I  am  not  like  the  ordinary  adventurer  who 
strikes  for  a  coveted  prize.  Nor  yet  am  I  like  a  gam- 
bler who  knows  he  is  either  to  win  or  lose  a  certain  set 
'take.  What  I  want  is  to  encounter  an  adventure  to 


282  Strictly  Business 

which  I  can  predict  no  conclusion.  It  is  the  breath  of 
existence  to  me  to  dare  Fate  in  its  blindest  manifesta- 
tions. The  world  has  come  to  run  so  much  by  rote  and 
gravitation  that  you  can  enter  upon  hardly  any  foot- 
path of  chance  in  which  you  do  not  find  signboards  in- 
forming you  of  what  you  may  expect  at  its  end.  I  am 
like  the  clerk  in  the  Circumlocution  Office  who  always 
complained  bitterly  when  any  one  came  in  to  ask  infor- 
mation. '  He  wanted  to  know,  you  know ! '  was  the  kick 
he  made  to  his  fellow-clerks.  Well,  I  don't  want  to 
know,  I  don't  want  to  reason,  I  don't  want  to  guess  —  I 
want  to  bet  my  hand  without  seeing  it." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Forster  delightedly.  "  I've 
often  wanted  the  way  I  feel  put  into  words.  You've 
done  it.  I  want  to  take  chances  on  what's  coming. 
Suppose  we  have  a  bottle  of  Moselle  with  the  next 
course." 

"  Agreed,"  said  Ives.  "  I'm  glad  you  catch  my  idea. 
It  will  increase  the  animosity  of  the  house  toward  the 
loser.  If  it  does  not  weary  you,  we  will  pursue  the 
theme.  Only  a  few  times  have  I  met  a  true  venturer  — 
one  who  does  not  ask  a  schedule  and  map  from  Fate 
when  he  begins  a  journey.  But,  as  the  world  becomes 
more  civilized  and  wiser,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  come 
upon  an  adventure  the  end  of  which  you  cannot  foresee. 
In  the  Elizabethan  days  you  could  assault  the  watch, 
wring  knockers  from  doors  and  have  a  jolly  set-to  with 
the  blades  in  any  convenient  angle  of  a  wall  and  '  get 


The  Venturers  283 

away  with  it.'  Nowadays,  if  you  speak  disrespectfully 
to  a  policeman,  all  that  is  left  to  the  most  romantic 
fancy  is  to  conjecture  in  what  particular  police  station 
he  will  land  you." 

"  I  know  —  I  know,"  said  Forster,  nodding  approval. 

"  I  returned  to  New  York  to-day,"  continued  Ives, 
"  from  a  three  years'  ramble  around  the  globe.  Things 
are  not  much  better  abroad  than  they  are  at  home. 
The  whole  world  seems  to  be  overrun  by  conclusions. 
The  only  thing  that  interests  me  greatly  is  a  premise. 
I've  tried  shooting  big  game  in  Africa.  I  know  what 
an  express  rifle  will  do  at  so  many  yards ;  and  when  an 
elephant  or  a  rhinoceros  falls  to  the  bullet,  I  enjoy  it 
about  as  much  as  I  did  when  I  was  kept  in  after  school 
to  do  a  sum  in  long  division  on  the  blackboard." 

"  I  know  • —  I  know,"  said  Forster. 

"  There  might  be  something  in  aeroplanes,"  went  on 
Ives,  reflectively.  "  I've  tried  ballooning ;  but  it  seems 
to  be  merely  a  cut-and-dried  affair  of  wind  and  ballast." 

"  Women,"  suggested  Forster,  with  a  smile. 

"  Three  months  ago,"  said  Ives.  "  I  was  pottering 
around  in  one  of  the  bazaars  in  Constantinople.  I  no- 
ticed a  lady,  veiled,  of  course,  but  with  a  pair  of  espe- 
cially fine  eyes  visible,  who  was  examining  some  amber 
and  pearl  ornaments  at  one  of  the  booths.  With  her 
was  an  attendant  —  a  big  Nubian,  as  black  as  coal. 
After  a  while  the  attendant  drew  nearer  to  me  by  degrees 
and  slipped,  a  scrap  of  paper  into  my  hand.  I  looked 


284  Strictly  Business 

at  it  when  I  got  a  chance.  On  it  was  scrawled  hastily  in 
pencil :  *  The  arched  gate  of  the  Nightingale  Garden 
at  nine  to-night.'  Does  that  appear  to  you  to  be  an  in- 
teresting premise,  Mr.  Forster?  " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Forster  eagerly. 

"  I  made  inquiries  and  learned  that  the  Nightingale 
Garden  was  the  property  of  an  old  Turk  —  a  grand 
vizier,  or  something  of  the  sort.  Of  course  I  prospected 
for  the  arched  gate  and  was  there  at  nine.  The  same 
Nubian  attendant  opened  the  gate  promptly  on  time, 
and  I  went  inside  and  sat  on  a  bench  by  a  perfumed 
fountain  with  the  veiled  lady.  We  had  quite  an  ex- 
tended chat.  She  was  Myrtle  Thompson,  a  lady  jour- 
nalist, who  was  writing  up  the  Turkish  harems  for  a 
Chicago  newspaper.  She  said  she  noticed  the  New  York 
cut  of  my  clothes  in  the  bazaar  and  wondered  if  I 
couldn't  work  something  into  the  metropolitan  papers 
about  it." 

"  I  see,"  said  Forster.     "  I  see." 

"  I've  canoed  through  Canada,"  said  Ives,  "  down 
many  rapids  and  over  many  falls.  But  I  didn't  seem  to 
get  what  I  wanted  out  of  it  because  I  knew  there  were 
only  two  possible  outcomes  —  I  would  either  go  to  the 
bottom  or  arrive  at  the  sea  level.  I've  played  all  games 
at  cards ;  but  the  mathematicians  have  spoiled  that 
sport  by  computing  the  percentages.  I've  made  ac- 
quaintances on  trains,  I've  answered  advertisements,  I've 
rung  strange  door-bells,  I've  taken  every  chance  that 


The  Venturers  285 

presented  itself;  but  there  has  always  been  the  conven- 
tional ending  —  the  logical  conclusion  to  the  premise." 

"  I  know,"  repeated  Forster.  "  I've  felt  it  all.  But 
I've  had  few  chances  to  take  my  chance  at  chances.  Is 
there  any  life  so  devoid  of  impossibilities  as  life  in  this 
city?  There  seems  to  be  a  myriad  of  opportunities  for 
testing  the  undeterminable;  but  not  one  in  a  thousand 
fails  to  land  you  where  you  expected  it  to  stop.  I  wish 
the  subways  and  street  cars  disappointed  one  as  seldom." 

"  The  sun  has  risen,"  said  Ives,  "  on  the  Arabian 
nights.  There  are  no  more  caliphs.  The  fisherman's 
vase  is  turned  to  a  vacuum  bottle,  warranted  to  keep 
any  genie  boiling  or  frozen  for  forty-eight  hours. 
Life  moves  by  rote.  Science  has  killed  adventure. 
There  are  no  more  opportunities  such  as  Columbus  and 
the  man  who  ate  the  first  oyster  had.  The  only  certain 
thing  is  that  there  is  nothing  uncertain." 

"  Well,"  said  Forster,  "  my  experience  has  been  the 
limited  one  of  a  city  man.  I  haven't  seen  the  world  as 
you  have;  but  it  seems  that  we  view  it  with  the  same 
opinion.  But,  I  tell  you  I  am  grateful  for  even  this 
little  venture  of  ours  into  the  borders  of  the  haphazard. 
There  may  be  at  least  one  breathless  moment  when  the 
bill  for  the  dinner  is  presented.  Perhaps,  after  all,  the 
pilgrims  who  traveled  without  scrip  or  purse  found  a 
keener  taste  to  life  than  did  the  knights  of  the  Round 
Table  who  rode  abroad  with  a  retinue  and  King  Arthur's 
certified  checks  in  the  lining  of  their  helmets.  And  now, 


286  Strictly  Business 

if  you've  finished  your  coffee,  suppose  we  match  one  of 
your  insufficient  coins  for  the  impending  blow  of  Fate. 
What  have  I  up?  " 

"  Heads,"  called  Ives. 

"  Heads  it  is,"  said  Forster,  lifting  his  hand.  "  I 
lose.  We  forgot  to  agree  upon  a  plan  for  the  winner  to 
escape.  I  suggest  that  when  the  waiter  comes  you 
make  a  remark  about  telephoning  to  a  friend.  I  will 
hold  the  fort  and  the  dinner  check  long  enough  for  you 
to  get  your  hat  and  be  off.  I  thank  you  for  an  even- 
ing out  of  the  ordinary,  Mr.  Ives,  and  wish  we  might 
have  others." 

"  If  my  memory  is  not  at  fault,"  said  Ives,  laughing, 
"  the  nearest  police  station  is  in  Macdougal  Street.  I 
have  enjoyed  the  dinner,  too,  let  me  assure  you." 

Forster  crooked  his  finger  for  the  waiter.  Victor, 
with  a  locomotive  effort  that  seemed  to  owe  more  to 
pneumatics  than  to  pedestrianism,  glided  to  the  table 
and  laid  the  card,  face  downward,  by  the  loser's  cup. 
Forster  took  it  up  and  added  the  figures  with  deliberate 
care.  Ives  leaned  back  comfortably  in  his  chair. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  Forster ;  "  but  I  thought  you  were 
going  to  ring  up  Grimes  about  that  theatre  party  for 
Thursday  night.  Had  you  forgotten  about  it?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Ives,  settling  himself  more  comfortably. 
"  I  can  do  that  later  on.  Get  me  a  glass  of  water, 
waiter." 

"  Want  to  be  in  at  the  death,  do  you?  "  asked  Forster. 


The  Venturers  287 

"  I  hope  you  don't  object,"  said  Ives,  pleadingly. 
"  Never  in  my  life  have  I  seen  a  gentleman  arrested  in  a 
public  restaurant  for  swindling  it  out  of  a  dinner." 

"  All  right,"  said  Forster,  calmly.  "  You  are  en- 
titled to  see  a  Christian  die  in  the  arena  as  your  pousse- 
cafe." 

Victor  came  with  the  glass  of  water  and  remained, 
with  the  disengaged  air  of  an  inexorable  collector. 

Forster  hesitated  for  fifteen  seconds,  and  then  took  a 
pencil  from  his  pocket  and  scribbled  his  name  on  the  din- 
ner check.  The  waiter  bowed  and  took  it  away. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Forster,  with  a  little  embarrassed 
laugh,  "  I  doubt  whether  I'm  what  they  call  a  '  game 
sport,*  which  means  the  same  as  a  '  soldier  of  Fortune.' 
I'll  have  to  make  a  confession.  I've  been  dining  at 
this  hotel  two  or  three  times  a  week  for  more  than  a 
year.  I  always  sign  my  checks."  And  then,  with  a 
note  of  appreciation  in  his  voice :  "  It  was  first-rate 
of  you  to  stay  to  see  me  through  with  it  when  you  knew 
I  had  no  money,  and  that  you  might  be  scooped  in,  too." 

"  I  guess  I'll  confess,  too,"  said  Ives,  with  a  grin. 
"  I  own  the  hotel.  I  don't  run  it,  of  course,  but  I  al- 
ways keep  a  suite  on  the  third  floor  for  my  use  when  I 
happen  to  stray  into  town." 

He  called  a  waiter  and  said :  "  Is  Mr.  Gilmore  still 
behind  the  desk?  All  right.  Tell  him  that  Mr.  Ives 
is  here,  and  ask  him  to  have  my  rooms  made  ready  and 
aired." 


288  Strictly  Business 

"  Another  venture  cut  short  by  the  inevitable,"  said 
Forster.  "  Is  there  a  conundrum  without  an  answer  in 
the  next  number?  But  let's  hold  to  our  subject  just 
for  a  minute  or  two,  if  you  will.  It  isn't  often  that  I 
meet  a  man  who  understands  the  flaws  I  pick  in  exist- 
ence. I  am  engaged  to  be  married  a  month  from  to- 
day." 

"  I  reserve  comment,"  said  Ives. 

"  Right ;  I  am  going  to  add  to  the  assertion.  I  am 
devotedly  fond  of  the  lady;  but  I  can't  decide  whether 
to  show  up  at  the  church  or  make  a  sneak  for  Alaska. 
It's  the  same  idea,  you  know,  that  we  were  discussing  — • 
it  does  for  a  fellow  as  far  as  possibilities  are  concerned. 
Everybody  knows  the  routine  —  you  get  a  kiss  flavored 
with  Ceylon  tea  after  breakfast;  you  go  to  the  office; 
you  come  back  home  and  dress  for  dinner  —  theatre 
twice  a  week  —  bills  - —  moping  around  most  evenings 
trying  to  make  conversation  —  a  little  quarrel  occa- 
sionally —  maybe  sometimes  a  big  one,  and  a  separation 
' —  or  else  a  settling  down  into  a  middle-aged  content- 
ment, which  is  worst  of  all." 

"  I  know,"  said  Ives,  nodding  wisely. 

"  It's  the  dead  certainty  of  the  thing,"  went  on 
Forster,  "  that  keeps  me  in  doubt.  There'll  nevermore 
be  anything  around  the  corner." 

"  Nothing  after  the  *  Little  Church,'  "  said  Ives.  "  I 
know." 


The  Venturers  289 

"  Understand,"  said  Forster,  "  that  I  am  in  no  doubt 
as  to  my  feelings  toward  the  lady.  I  may  say  that  I 
love  her  truly  and  deeply.  But  there  is  something  in 
the  current  that  runs  through  my  veins  that  cries  out 
against  any  form  of  the  calculable.  I  do  not  know  wha/c 
I  want ;  but  I  know  that  I  want  it.  I'm  talking  like  an 
idiot,  I  suppose,  but  I'm  sure  of  what  I  mean." 

"  I  understand  you,"  said  Ives,  with  a  slow  smile. 
"  Well,  I  think  I  will  be  going  up  to  my  rooms  now. 
If  you  would  dine  with  me  here  one  evening  soon,  Mr. 
Forster,  I'd  be  glad." 

"  Thursday  ?  "  suggested  Forster. 

"  At  seven,  if  it's  convenient,"  answered  Ives. 

"  Seven  goes,"  assented  Forster. 

At  half -past  eight  Ives  got  into  a  cab  and  was  driven 
to  a  number  in  ooe  of  the  correct  West  Seventies.  His 
card  admitted  him  to  the  reception  room  of  an  old- 
fashioned  house  into  which  the  spirits  of  Fortune, 
Chance  and  Adventure  had  never  dared  to  enter.  On 
the  walls  were  the  Whistler  etchings,  the  steel  engrav- 
ings by  Oh-what's-his-name?,  the  still-life  paintings  of 
the  grapes  and  garden  truck  with  the  watermelon  seeds 
spilled  on  the  table  as  natural  as  life,  and  the  Greuze 
head.  It  was  a  household.  There  were  even  brass 
andirons.  Oh  a  table  was  an  album,  half-morocco,  with 
oxidized-silver  protections  on  the  corners  of  the  lids. 
A  clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  leudly,  with  a  warning 


290  Strictly  Business 

click  at  five  minutes  to  nine.  Ives  looked  at  it  curi- 
ously, remembering  a  time-piece  in  his  grandmother's 
home  that  gave  such  a  warning. 

And  then  down  the  stairs  and  into  the  room  came 
Mary  Marsden.  She  was  twenty-four,  and  I  leave  her 
to  your  imagination.  But  I  must  say  this  much  — 
youth  and  health  and  simplicity  and  courage  and  green- 
ish-violet eyes  are  beautiful,  and  she  had  all  these. 
She  gave  Ives  her  hand  with  the  sweet  cordiality  of  an 
old  friendship. 

"  You  can't  think  what  a  pleasure  it  is,"  she  said,  "  to 
have  you  drop  in  once  every  three  years  or  so." 

For  half  an  hour  they  talked.  I  confess  that  I  can- 
not repeat  the  conversation.  You  will  find  it  in  books 
in  the  circulating  library.  When  that  part  of  it  was 
over,  Mary  said: 

"  And  did  you  find  what  you  wanted  while  you  were 
abroad?  " 

"  What  I  wanted?  "  said  Ives. 

"  Yes.  You  know  you  were  always  queer.  Even  as 
a  boy  you  wouldn't  play  marbles  or  baseball  or  any 
game  with  rules.  You  wanted  to  dive  in  water  where 
you  didn't  know  whether  it  was  ten  inches  or  ten  feet 
deep.  And  when  you  grew  up  you  were  just  the  same. 
We've  often  talked  about  your  peculiar  ways." 

"  I  suppose  I  am  an  incorrigible,"  said  Ives.  "  I  am 
opposed  to  the  doctrine  of  predestination,  to  the  rule 
of  three,  gravitation,  taxes  and  everything  of  the  kind. 


The  Venturers  291 

Life  has  always  seemed  to  me  something  like  a  serial 
story  would  be  if  they  printed  above  each  instalment  a 
synopsis  of  succeeding  chapters." 

Mary   laughed   merrily. 

"  Bob  Ames  told  us  once,"  she  said,  "  of  a  funny 
thing  you  did.  It  was  when  you  and  he  were  on  a  train 
in  the  South,  and  you  got  off  at  a  town  where  you 
hadn't  intended  to  stop  just  because  the  brakeman  hung 
up  a  sign  in  the  end  of  the  car  with  the  name  of  the 
next  station  on  it." 

"  I  remember,"  said  Ives.  "  That  '  next  station  '  has 
been  the  thing  I've  always  tried  to  get  away  from." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Mary.  "  And  you've  been  very 
foolish.  I  hope  you  didn't  find  what  you  wanted  not 
to  find,  or  get  off  at  the  station  where  there  wasn't  any, 
or  whatever  it  was  you  expected  wouldn't  happen  to  you 
during  the  three  years  you've  been  away." 

"  There  was  something  I  wanted  before  I  went  away," 
said  Ives. 

Mary  looked  in  his  eyes  clearly,  with  a  slight,  but 
perfectly  sweet  smile. 

"  There  was,"  she  said.  "  You  wanted  me.  And 
you  could  have  had  me,  as  you  very  well  know." 

Without  replying,  Ives  let  his  gaze  wander  slowly 
about  the  room.  There  had  been  no  change  in  it  since 
last  he  had  been  in  it,  three  years  before.  He  vividly 
recalled  the  thoughts  that  had  been  in  his  mind  then. 
The  contents  of  that  room  were  as  fixed,  in  their  way, 


292  Strictly  Business 

as  the  everlasting  hills.  No  change  would  ever  come 
there  except  the  inevitable  ones  wrought  by  time  and  de- 
cay. That  silver-mounted  album  would  occupy  that 
corner  of  that  table,  those  pictures  would  hang  on  the 
walls,  those  chairs  be  found  in  their  same  places  every 
morn  and  noon  and  night  while  the  household  hung  to- 
gether. The  brass  andirons  were  monuments  to  order 
and  stability.  Here  and  there  were  relics  of  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  which  were  still  living  mementos  and 
would  be  for  many  years  to  come.  One  going  from  and 
coming  back  to  that  house  would  never  need  to  forecast 
or  doubt.  He  would  find  what  he  left,  and  leave  what 
he  found.  The  veiled  lady,  Chance,  would  never  lift 
her  hand  to  the  knocker  on  the  outer  door. 

And  before  him  sat  the  lady  who  belonged  in  the 
room.  Cool  and  sweet  and  unchangeable  she  was.  She 
offered  no  surprises.  If  one  should  pass  his  life  with 
her,  though  she  might  grow  white-haired  and  wrinkled, 
he  would  never  perceive  the  change.  Three  years  he 
had  been  away  from  her,  and  she  was  still  waiting  for 
him  as  established  and  constant  as  the  house  itself.  He 
was  sure  that  she  had  once  cared  for  him.  It  was  the 
knowledge  that  she  would  always  do  so  that  had  driven 
him  away.  Thus  his  thoughts  ran. 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married  soon,"  said  Mary. 

On  the  next  Thursday  afternoon  Forster  came  hur- 
riedly to  Ives's  hotel. 


The  Venturers  293 

"  Old  man,"  said  he,  "  we'll  have  to  put  that  dinner 
off  for  a  year  or  so ;  I'm  going  abroad.  The  steamer 
sails  at  four.  That  was  a  great  talk  we  had  the  other 
night,  and  it  decided  me.  I'm  going  to  knock  around 
the  world  and  get  rid  of  that  incubus  that  has  been 
weighing  on  both  you  and  me  —  the  terrible  dread  of 
knowing  what's  going  to  happen.  I've  done  one  thing 
that  hurts  my  conscience  a  little;  but  I  know  it's  best 
for  both  of  us.  I've  written  to  the  lady  to  whom  I  was 
engaged  and  explained  everything  —  told  her  plainly 
why  I  was  leaving  —  that  the  monotony  of  matrimony 
would  never  do  for  me.  Don't  you  think  I  was  right  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say,"  answered  Ives.  "  Go 
ahead  and  shoot  elephants  if  you  think  it  will  bring  the 
element  of  .chance  into  your  life.  We've  got  to  decide 
these  things  for  ourselves.  But  I  tell  you  one  thing, 
Forster,  I've  found  the  way.  I've  found  out  the  big- 
gest hazard  in  the  world  —  a  game  of  chance  that  never 
is  concluded,  a  venture  that  may  end  in  the  highest 
heaven  or  the  blackest  pit.  It  will  keep  a  man  on  edge 
until  the  clods  fall  on  his  coffin,  because  he  will  never 
know  —  not  until  his  last  day,  and  not  then  will  he  know. 
It  is  a  voyage  without  a  rudder  or  compass,  and  you 
must  be  captain  and  crew  and  keep  watch,  every  day 
and  night,  yourself,  with  no  one  to  relieve  you.  I  have 
found  the  VENTURE.  Don't  bother  yourself  about 
leaving  Mary  Marsden,  Forster.  I  married  her  yester- 
day at  noon," 


XXII 
THE  DUEL 

1HE  gods,  lying  beside  their  nectar  on  'Lympus  and 
peeping  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  perceive  a  difference 
in  cities.  Although  it  would  seem  that  to  their  vision 
towns  must  appear  as  large  or  small  ant-hills  without 
special  characteristics,  yet  it  is  not  so.  Studying  the 
habits  of  ants  from  so  great  a  height  should  be  but  a 
mild  diversion  when  coupled  with  the  soft  drink  that 
mythology  tells  us  is  their  only  solace.  But  doubtless 
they  have  amused  themselves  by  the  comparison  of 
villages  and  towns ;  and  it  will  be  no  news  to  them  (nor, 
perhaps,  to  many  mortals),  that  in  one  particularity 
New  York  stands  unique  among  the  cities  of  the  world. 
This  shall  be  the  theme  of  a  little  story  addressed  to 
the  man  who  sits  smoking  with  his  Sabbath-slippered 
feet  on  another  chair,  and  to  the  woman  who  snatches 
the  paper  for  a  moment  while  boiling  greens  or  a  nar- 
cotized baby  leaves  her  free.  With  these  I  love  to  sit 
upon  the  ground  and  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of 
Kings. 

New  York  City  is  inhabited  by  4,000,000  mysterious 
strangers;  thus  beating  Bird  Centre  by  three  millions 
and  half  a  dozen  nine's.  They  came  here  in  various 

294 


The  Duel  295 

ways  and  for  many  reasons  —  Hendrik  Hudson,  the 
art  schools,  green  goods,  the  stork,  the  annual  dress- 
makers' convention,  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  love  of 
money,  the  stage,  cheap  excursion  rates,  brains,  personal 
column  ads.,  heavy  walking  shoes,  ambition,  freight 
trains  —  all  these  have  had  a  hand  in  making  up  the 
population. 

But  every  man  Jack  when  he  first  sets  foot  on  the 
stones  of  Manhattan  has  got  to  fight.  He  has  got  to 
fight  at  once  until  either  he  or  his  adversary  wins. 
There  is  no  resting  between  rounds,  for  there  are  no 
rounds.  It  is  slugging  from  the  first.  It  is  a  fight  to 
a  finish. 

Your  opponent  is  the  City.  You  must  do  battle  with 
it  from  the  time  the  ferry-boat  lands  you  on  the  island 
until  either  it  is  yours  or  it  has  conquered  you.  It  is 
the  same  whether  you  have  a  million  in  your  pocket  or 
only  the  price  of  a  week's  lodging. 

The  battle  is  to  decide  whether  you  shall  become  a 
New  Yorker  or  turn  the  rankest  outlander  and  Phil- 
istine. You  must  be  one  or  the  other.  You  cannot 
remain  neutral.  You  must  be  for  or  against  —  lover 
or  enemy  —  bosom  friend  or  outcast.  And,  oh,  the  city 
is  a  general  in  the  ring.  Not  only  by  blows  does  it 
seek  to  subdue  you.  It  woos  you  to  its  heart  with  the 
subtlety  of  a  siren.  It  is  a  combination  of  Delilah, 
green  Chartreuse,  Beethoven,  chloral  and  John  L.  in 
his  best  days. 


296  Strictly  ^Business 

In  other  cities  you  may  wander  and  abide  as  a 
stranger  man  as  long  as  you  please.  You  may  live  in 
Chicago  until  your  hair  whitens,  and  be  a  citizen  and 
still  prate  of  beans  if  Boston  mothered  you,  and  with- 
out rebuke.  You  may  become  a  civic  pillar  in  any 
other  town  but  Knickerbocker's,  and  all  the  time 
publicly  sneering  at  its  buildings,  comparing  them  with 
the  architecture  of  Colonel  Telfair's  residence  in  Jack- 
son, Miss.,  whence  you  hail,  and  you  will  not  be  set 
upon.  But  in  New  York  you  must  be  either  a  New 
Yorker  or  an  invader  of  a  modern  Troy,  concealed  in 
the  wooden  horse  of  your  conceited  provincialism. 
And  this  dreary  preamble  is  only  to  introduce  to  you 
the  unimportant  figures  of  William  and  Jack. 

They  came  out  of  the  West  together,  where  they  had 
been  friends.  They  came  to  dig  their  fortunes  out  of 
the  big  city. 

Father  Knickerbocker  met  them  at  the  ferry,  giving 
one  a  right-hander  on  the  nose  and  the  other  an  upper- 
cut  with  his  left,  just  to  let  them  know  that  the  fight 
was  on. 

William  was  for  business;  Jack  was  for  Art.  Both 
were  young  and  ambitious ;  so  they  countered  and 
clinched.  I  think  they  were  from  Nebraska  or  possibly 
Missouri  or  Minnesota.  Anyhow,  they  were  out  for 
success  and  scraps  and  scads,  and  they  tackled  the  city 
like  two  Lochinvars  with  brass  knucks  and  a  pull  at  th* 
City  Hall. 


The  Duel  297 

Four  years  afterward  William  and  Jack  met  at 
luncheon.  The  business  man  blew  in  like  a  March  wind, 
hurled  his  silk  hat  at  a  waiter,  dropped  into  the  chair 
that  was  pushed  under  him,  seized  the  bill  of  fare,  and 
had  ordered  as  far  as  cheese  before  the  artist  had  time 
to  do  more  than  nod.  After  the  nod  a  humorous  smile 
came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Billy,"  he  said,  "  you're  done  for.  The  city  has 
gobbled  you  up.  It  has  taken  you  and  cut  you  to  its 
pattern  and  stamped  you  with  its  brand.  You  are  so 
nearly  like  ten  thousand  men  I  have  seen  to-day  that 
you  couldn't  be  picked  out  from  them  if  it  weren't  for 
your  laundry  marks." 

"Camembert,"  finished  William.  "What's  that? 
Oh,  you've  still  got  your  hammer  out  for  New  York, 
have  you?  Well,  little  old  Noisy ville-on-the-Subway  is 
good  enough  for  me.  It's  giving  me  mine.  And,  say, 
I  used  to  think  the  West  was  the  whole  round  world  — 
only  slightly  flattened  at  the  poles  whenever  Bryan  ran. 
I  used  to  yell  myself  hoarse  about  the  free  expense,  and 
hang  my  hat  on  the  horizon,  and  say  cutting  things  in 
the  grocery  to  little  soap  drummers  from  the  East. 
But  I'd  never  seen  New  York,  then,  Jack.  Me  for  it 
from  the  rathskellers  up.  Sixth  Avenue  is  the  West  to 
me  now.  Have  you  heard  this  fellow  Crusoe  sing? 
The  desert  isle  for  him,  I  say,  but  my  wife  made  me 
go.  Give  me  May  Irwin  or  E.  S.  Willard  any  time." 

"  Poor  Billy,"  said  the  artist,  delicately  fingering  a 


298  Strictly  Business 

cigarette.  "  You  remember,  when  we  were  on  our  way 
to  the  East  how  we  talked  about  this  great,  wonderful 
city,  and  how  we  meant  to  conquer  it  and  never  let  it 
get  the  best  of  us?  We  were  going  to  be  just  the  same 
fellows  we  had  always  been,  and  never  let  it  master 
us.  It  has  downed  you,  old  man.  You  have  changed 
from  a  maverick  into  a  butterick." 

"  Don't  see  exactly  what  you  are  driving  at,"  said 
William.  "  I  don't  wear  an  alpaca  coat  with  blue 
trousers  and  a  seersucker  vest  on  dress  occasions,  like 
I  used  to  do  at  home.  You  talk  about  being  cut  to  a 
pattern  —  well,  ain't  the  pattern  all  right  ?  When 
you're  in  Rome  you've  got  to  do  as  the  Dagoes  do. 
This  town  seems  to  me  to  have  other  alleged  metropo- 
lises skinned  to  flag  stations.  According  to  the  rail- 
road schedule  I've  got  in  my  mind,  Chicago  and  Saint 
Jo  and  Paris,  France,  are  asterisk  stops  —  which  means 
you  wave  a  red  flag  and  get  on  every  other  Tuesday. 
I  like  this  little  suburb  of  Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. 
There's  something  or  somebody  doing  all  the  time. 
I'm  clearing  $8,000  a  year  selling  automatic  pumps, 
and  I'm  living  like  kings-up.  Why,  yesterday,  I  was 
introduced  to  John  W.  Gates.  I  took  an  auto  ride 
with  a  wine  agent's  sister.  I  saw  two  men  run  over 
by  a  street  car,  and  I  seen  Edna  May  play  in  the  even- 
ing. Talk  about  the  West,  why,  the  other  night  I  woke 
everybody  up  in  the  hotel  hollering.  I  dreamed  I  was 
walking  on  a  board  sidewalk  in  Oshkosh.  What  have 


The  Duel  299 

you  got  against  this  town,  Jack?  There's  only  one 
thing  in  it  that  I  don't  care  for,  and  that's  a  ferry- 
boat." 

The  artist  gazed  dreamily  at  the  cartridge  paper  on 
the  wall.  "This  town,"  said  he,  "is  a  leech.  It 
drains  the  blood  of  the  country.  Whoever  comes  to  it 
accepts  a  challenge  to  a  duel.  Abandoning  the  figure 
of  the  leech,  it  is  a  juggernaut,  a  Moloch,  a  monster  to 
which  the  innocence,  the  genius,  and  the  beauty  of  the 
land  must  pay  tribute.  Hand  to  hand  every  newcomer 
must  struggle  with  the  leviathan.  You've  lost,  Billy. 
It  shall  never  conquer  me.  I  hate  it  as  one  hates  sin  or 
pestilence  or  —  the  color  work  in  a  ten-cent  magazine. 
I  despise  its  very  vastness  and  power.  It  has  the  poor- 
est millionaires,  the  littlest  great  men,  the  haughtiest 
beggars,  the  plainest  beauties,  the  lowest  skyscrapers, 
the  dolefulest  pleasures  of  any  town  I  ever  saw.  It 
has  caught  you,  old  man,  but  I  will  never  run  beside 
its  chariot  wheels.  It  glosses  itself  as  the  Chinaman 
glosses  his  collars.  Give  me  the  domestic  finish.  I 
could  stand  a  town  ruled  by  wealth  or  one  ruled  by  an 
aristocracy;  but  this  is  one  controlled  by  its  lowest  in- 
gredients. Claiming  culture,  it  is  the  crudest ;  assever- 
ating its  pre-eminence,  it  is  the  basest ;  denying  all  out- 
side values  and  virtue,  it  is  the  narrowest.  Give  me  the 
pure  air  and  the  open  heart  of  the  West  country.  I 
would  go  back  there  to-morrow  if  I  could." 

"  Don't  you  like  this  filet  mlgnon?  "  said  William. 


300  Strictly  Business 

"  Shucks,  now,  what's  the  use  to  knock  the  town !  It's 
the  greatest  ever.  I  couldn't  sell  one  automatic  pump 
between  Harrisburg  and  Tommy  O'Keefe's  saloon,  in 
Sacramento,  where  I  sell  twenty  here.  And  have  you 
seen  Sara  Bernardt  in  '  Andrew  Mack  '  yet  ?  " 

"  The  town's  got  you,  Billy,"  said  Jack. 

"  All  right,"  said  William.  "  I'm  going  to  buy  a 
cottage  on  Lake  Ronkonkoma  next  summer." 

At  midnight  Jack  raised  his  window  and  sat  close  to 
it.  He  caught  his  breath  at  what  he  saw,  though  he 
had  seen  and  felt  it  a  hundred  times. 

Far  below  and  around  lay  the  city  like  a  ragged 
purple  dream.  The  irregular  houses  were  like  the 
broken  exteriors  of  cliffs  lining  deep  gulches  and  wind- 
ing streams.  Some  were  mountainous ;  some  lay  in  long, 
monotonous  rows  like  the  basalt  precipices  hanging  over 
desert  canons.  Such  was  the  background  of  the  won- 
derful, cruel,  enchanting,  bewildering,  fatal,  great  city. 
But  into  this  background  were  cut  myriads  of  brilliant 
parallelograms  and  circles  and  squares  through  which 
glowed  many  colored  lights.  And  out  of  the  violet  and 
purple  depths  ascended  like  the  city's  soul  sounds  and 
odors  and  thrills  that  make  up  the  civic  body.  There 
arose  the  breath  of  gaiety  unrestrained,  of  love,  of  hate, 
of  all  the  passions  that  man  can  know.  There  below 
him  lay  all  things,  good  or  bad,  that  can  be  brought 
from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  to  instruct,  please, 
thrill,  enrich,  despoil,  elevate,  cast  down,  nurture  or 


The  Duel  301 

Thus  the  flavor  of  it  came  up  to  him  and  went  into  his 
blood. 

There  was  a  knock  on  his  door.  A  telegram  had 
come  for  him.  It  came  from  the  West,  and  these  were 
its  words: 

"  Come  back  home  and  the  answer  will  be  yes. 

"  DOLLY." 

He  kept  the  boy  waiting  ten  minutes,  and  then  wrote 
the  reply :  "  Impossible  to  leave  here  at  present." 
Then  he  sat  at  the  window  again  and  let  the  city  put 
its  cup  of  mandragora  to  his  lips  again. 

After  all  it  isn't  a  story ;  but  I  wanted  to  know  which 
one  of  the  heroes  won  the  battle  against  the  city.  So 
I  went  to  .a  very  learned  friend  and  laid  the  case  before 
him.  What  he  said  was :  "  Please  don't  bother  me ;  I 
have  Christmas  presents  to  buy." 

So  there  it  rests ;  and  you  will  have  to  decide  for  your- 
self. 


xxin 

«  WHAT  YOU  WANT  " 

.NlGHT  had  fallen  on  that  great  and  beautiful  city 
known  as  Bagdad-on-the-Subway.  And  with  the  night 
came  the  enchanted  glamour  that  belongs  not  to  Arabia 
alone.  In  different  masquerade  the  streets,  bazaars 
and  walled  houses  of  the  occidental  city  of  romance 
were  filled  with  the  same  kind  of  folk  that  so  much  in- 
terested our  interesting  old  friend,  the  late  Mr.  H.  A. 
Rashid.  They  wore  clothes  eleven  hundred  years  nearer 
to  the  latest  styles  than  H.  A.  saw  in  the  old  Bagdad; 
but  they  were  about  the  same  people  underneath. 
With  the  eye  of  faith,  you  could  have  seen  the  Little 
Hunchback,  Sinbad  the  Sailor,  Fitbad  the  Tailor,  the 
Beautiful  Persian,  the  one-eyed  Calenders,  Ali  Baba 
and  Forty  Robbers  on  every  block,  and  the  Barber  and 
his  Six  Brothers,  and  all  the  old  Arabian  gang  easily. 

But  let  us  revenue  to  our  lamb  chops. 

Old  Tom  Crowley  was  a  caliph.  He  had  $42,000,- 
000  in  preferred  stocks  and  bonds  with  solid  gold  edges. 
In  these  times,  to  be  called  a  caliph  you  must  have 
money.  The  old-style  caliph  business  as  conducted  by 
Mr.  Rashid  is  not  safe.  If  you  hold  up  a  person  now- 

302 


"What  You  Want*  303 

adays  in  a  bazaar  or  a  Turkish  bath  or  a  side  street, 
and  inquire  into  his  private  and  personal  affairs,  the 
police  court'll  get  you. 

Old  Tom  was  tired  of  clubs,  theatres,  dinners,  friends, 
music,  money  and  everything.  That's  whar  makes  a 
caliph  —  you  must  get  to  despise  everything  that  money 
can  buy,  and  then  go  out  and  try  to  w*nt  something 
that  you  can't  pay  for. 

"  I'll  take  a  little  trot  around  town  all  by  myself," 
thought  old  Tom,  "  and  try  if  I  c&n  stir  up  anything 
new.  Let's  see  —  it  seems  I've  read  about  a  king  or  a 
Cardiff  giant  or  something  in  old  times  who  used  to  go 
about  with  false  whiskers  on,  making  Persian  dates 
with  folks  he  hadn't  been  introduced  to.  That  don't 
listen  like  a  bad  idea.  I  certainly  have  got  a  case  of 
humdrumness  and  fatigue  on  for  the  ones  I  do  know. 
That  old  Cardiff  used  to  pick  up  cases  of  trouble  as  he 
ran  upon  'em  and  give  'em  gold  —  sequins,  I  think  it 
was  —  and  make  'em  marry  or  got  'em  good  Govern- 
ment jobs.  Now,  I'd  like  something  of  that  sort.  My 
money  is  as  good  as  his  was  even  if  the  magazines  do 
ask  me  every  month  where  I  got  it.  Yes,  I  guess  I'll 
do  a  little  Cardiff  business  to-night,  and  see  how  it 
goes." 

Plainly  dressed,  old  Tom  Crowley  left  his  Madison 
Avenue  palace,  and  walked  westward  and  then  south. 
As  he  stepped  to  the  sidewalk,  Fate,  who  holds  the  ends 
of  the  strings  in  the  central  offices  of  all  the  enchanted 


304  Strictly  Business 

cities  pulled  a  thread,  and  a  young  man  twenty  blocks 
away  looked  at  a  wall  clock,  and  then  put  on  his  coat. 

James  Turner  worked  in  one  of  those  little  hat- 
cleaning  establishments  on  Sixth  Avenue  in  which  a  fire 
alarm  rings  when  you  push  the  door  open,  and  where 
they  clean  your  hat  while  you  wait  —  two  days.  James 
stood  all  day  at  an  electric  machine  that  turned  hats 
around  faster  than  the  best  brands  of  champagne  ever 
could  have  done.  Overlooking  your  mild  impertinence 
in  feeling  a  curiosity  about  the  personal  appearance  of 
a  stranger,  I  will  give  you  a  modified  description  of 
him.  Weight,  118;  complexion,  hair  and  brain,  light; 
height,  five  feet  six;  age,  about  twenty-three;  dressed 
in  a  $10  suit  of  greenish-blue  serge ;  pockets  containing 
two  keys  and  sixty-three  cents  in  change. 

But  do  not  miscon j  ecture  because  this  description 
sounds  like  a  General  Alarm  that  James  was  either  lost 
or  a  dead  one. 

Allans  ! 

James  stood  all  day  at  his  work.  His  feet  were, 
tender  and  extremely  susceptible  to  impositions  being 
put  upon  or  below  them.  All  day  long  they  burned  and 
smarted,  causing  him  much  suffering  and  inconvenience. 
But  he  was  earning  twelve  dollars  per  week,  which  he 
needed  to  support  his  feet  whether  his  feet  would  sup- 
port him  or  not. 

James  Turner  had  his  own  conception  of  what  happi^ 
ness  was,  just  as  you  and  I  have  ours.  Your  delight  is 


"What  You  Want"  305 

to  gad  about  the  world  in  yachts  and  motor-cars  and  to 
hurl  ducats  at  wild  fowl.  Mine  is  to  smoke  a  pipe  at 
evenfall  and  watch  a  badger,  a  rattlesnake,  and  an  owl 
go  into  their  common  prairie  home  one  by  one. 

James  Turner's  idea  of  bliss  was  different ;  but  it  was 
his.  He  would  go  directly  to  his  boarding-house  when 
his  day's  work  was  done.  After  his  supper  of  small 
steak,  Bessemer  potatoes,  stooed  (not  stewed)  apples 
and  infusion  of  chicory,  he  would  ascend  to  his  fifth- 
floor-back  hall  room.  Then  he  would  take  off  his  shoes 
and  socks,  place  the  soles  of  his  burning  feet  against  the 
cold  bars  of  his  iron  bed,  and  read  Clark  Russell's  sea 
yarns.  The  delicious  relief  of  the  cool  metal  applied 
to  his  smarting  soles  was  his  nightly  joy.  His  favorite 
novels  ne.ver  palled  upon  him;  the  sea  and  the  ad- 
ventures of  its  navigators  were  his  sole  intellectual  pas- 
sion. No  millionaire  was  ever  happier  than  James 
Turner  taking  his  ease. 

When  James  left  the  hat-cleaning  shop  he  walked 
three  blocks  out  of  his  way  home  to  look  over  the  goods 
of  a  second-hand  bookstall.  On  the  sidewalk  stands  he 
had  more  than  once  picked  up  a  paper-covered  volume 
of  Clark  Russell  at  half  price. 

While  he  was  bending  with  a  scholarly  stoop  over  the 
marked-down  miscellany  of  cast-off  literature,  old  Tom 
the  caliph  sauntered  by.  His  discerning  eye,  made 
keen  by  twenty  years*  experience  in  the  manufacture  of 
laundry  soap  ( save  the  wrappers  I)  recognized  instantly 


806  Strictly  Business 

the  poor  and  discerning  scholar,  a  worthy  object  of  his 
caliphanous  mood.  He  descended  the  two  shallow  stone 
steps  that  led  from  the  sidewalk,  and  addressed  without 
hesitation  the  object  of  his  designed  munificence.  His 
first  words  were  no  worse  than  salutatory  and  tentative. 

James  Turner  looked  up  coldly,  with  "  Sartor 
Resartus  "  in  one  hand  and  "  A  Mad  Marriage  "  in  the 
other. 

"  Beat  it,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  want  to  buy  any  coat 
hangers  or  town  lots  in  Hankipoo,  New  Jersey.  Run 
along,  now,  and  play  with  your  Teddy  bear." 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  caliph,  ignoring  the  flippancy 
of  the  hat  cleaner,  "  I  observe  that  you  are  of  a  studious 
disposition.  Learning  is  one  of  the  finest  things  in  the 
world.  I  never  had  any  of  it  worth  mentioning,  but  I 
admire  to  see  it  in  others.  I  come  from  the  West,  where 
we  imagine  nothing  but  facts.  Maybe  I  couldn't  under- 
stand the  poetry  and  allusions  in  them  books  you  are 
picking  over,  but  I  like  to  see  somebody  else  seem  to 
know  what  they  mean.  Now,  I'd  like  to  make  you  a 
proposition.  I'm  worth  about  $40,000,000,  and  I'm 
getting  richer  every  day.  I  made  the  height  of  it  man- 
facturing  Aunt  Patty's  Silver  Soap.  I  invented  the  art 
of  making  it.  I  experimented  for  three  years  before  I 
got  just  the  right  quantity  of  chloride  of  sodium  solu- 
tion and  caustic  potash  mixture  to  curdle  properly. 
And  after  I  had  taken  some  $9,000,000  out  of  the  soap 


re  What  You  Want "  307 

Business  I  made  the  rest  in  corn  and  wheat  futures. 
Now,  you  seem  to  have  the  literary  and  scholarly  turn 
of  character;  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  pay 
for  your  education  at  the  finest  college  in  the  world. 
I'll  pay  the  expense  of  your  rummaging  over  Europe 
and  the  art  galleries,  and  finally  set  you  up  in  a  good 
business.  You  needn't  make  it  soap  if  you  have  any 
objections.  I  see  by  your  clothes  and  frazzled  necktie 
that  you  are  mighty  poor ;  and  you  can't  afford  to  turn 
down  the  offer.  Well,  when  do  you  want  to  begin  ?  " 

The  hat  cleaner  turned  upon  old  Tom  the  eye  of  the 
Big  City,  which  is  an  eye  expressive  of  cold  and  justifi- 
able suspicion,  of  judgment  suspended  as  high  as  Ha- 
inan was  hung,  of  self-preservation,  of  challenge,  curi- 
osity, defiance,  cynicism,  and,  strange  as  you  may  think 
it,  of  a  childlike  yearning  for  friendliness  and  fellow- 
ship that  must  be  hidden  when  one  walks  among  the 
"  stranger  bands."  For  in  New  Bagdad  one,  in  order 
to  survive,  must  suspect  whosoever  sits,  dwells,  drinks, 
rides,  walks  or  sleeps  in  the  adjacent  chair,  house,  booth, 
seat,  path  or  room. 

"  Say,  Mike,"  said  James  Turner,  "  what's  your  line, 
anyway  —  shoe  laces  ?  I'm  not  buying  anything. 
You  better  put  an  egg  in  your  shoe  and  beat  it  before 
incidents  occur  to  you.  You  can't  work  off  any  foun- 
tain pens,  gold  spectacles  you  found  on  the  street,  or 
trust  company  certificate  house  clearings  on  me.  Say, 


308  Strictly  Business 

do  I  look  like  I'd  climbed  down  one  of  them  missing 
fire-escapes  at  Helicon  Hall?  What's  vitiating  you, 
anyhow  ?  " 

"  Son,"  said  the  caliph,  in  his  most  Harunish  tones, 
"as  I  said,  I'm  worth  $40,000,000.  I  don't  want  to 
have  it  all  put  in  my  coffin  when  I  die.  I  want  to  do 
some  good  with  it.  I  seen  you  handling  over  these  here 
volumes  of  literature,  and  I  thought  I'd  keep  you.  I've 
give  the  missionary  societies  $2,000,000,  but  what  did  I 
get  out  of  it?  Nothing  but  a  receipt  from  the  secre- 
tary. Now,  you  are  just  the  kind  of  young  man  I'd 
like  to  take  up  and  see  what  money  could  make  of 
him." 

Volumes  of  Clark  Russell  were  hard  to  find  that  even- 
ing at  the  Old  Book  Shop.  And  James  Turner's 
smarting  and  aching  feet  did  not  tend  to  improve  his 
temper.  Humble  hat  cleaner  though  he  was,  he  had  a 
spirit  equal  to  any  caliph's. 

"  Say,  you  old  faker,"  he  said,  angrily,  "  be  on  your 
way.  I  don't  know  what  your  game  is,  unless  you  want 
change  for  a  bogus  $40,000,000  bill.  Well,  I  don't 
carry  that  much  around  with  me.  But  I  do  carry  a 
pretty  fair  left-handed  punch  that  you'll  get  if  }TOU 
don't  move  on." 

"  You  are  a  blamed  impudent  little  gutter  pup,"  said 
the  caliph. 

Then  James  delivered  his  self-praised  punch;  old 
Tom  seized  him  by  the  collar  and  kicked  him  thrice; 


rf  What  You  Want "  309 

the  hat  cleaner  rallied  and  clinched;  two  bookstands 
were  overturned,  and  the  books  sent  flying.  A  cop  came 
up,  took  an  arm  of  each,  and  marched  them  to  the  near- 
est station  house.  "  Fighting  and  disorderly  conduct,** 
said  the  cop  to  the  sergeant. 

"  Three  hundred  dollars  bail,"  said  the  sergeant  at 
once,  asseveratingly  and  inquiringly. 

"  Sixty-three  cents,"  said  James  Turner  with  a  harsh 
laugh. 

The  caliph  searched  his  pockets  and  collected  small 
bills  and  change  amounting  to  four  dollars. 

"  I  am  worth,"  he  said,  "  forty  million  dollars, 
but—" 

"  Lock  'em  up,"  ordered  the  sergeant. 

In  his  cell,  James  Turner  laid  himself  on  his  cot, 
ruminating.  "  Maybe  he's  got  the  money,  and  maybe 
he  ain't.  But  if  he  has  or  he  ain't,  what  does  he  want 
to  go  'round  butting  into  other  folks's  business  for? 
When  a  man  knows  what  he  wants,  and  can  get  it,  it's 
the  same  as  $40,000,000  to  him." 

Then  an  idea  came  to  him  that  brought  a  pleased  look 
to  his  face. 

He  removed  his  socks,  drew  his  cot  close  to  the  door, 
stretched  himself  out  luxuriously,  and  placed  his  tor- 
tured feet  against  the  cold  bars  of  the  cell  door.  Some- 
thing hard  and  bulky  under  the  blankets  of  his  cot 
gave  one  shoulder  discomfort.  He  reached  under,  and 
drew  out  a  paper-covered  volume  by  Clark  Russell  called 


310  Strictly  Business 

"  A   Sailor's   Sweetheart."     He   gave   a   great  sigh   of 
contentment. 

Presently  to  his  cell  came  the  doorman  and  said : 
"  Say,  kid,  that  old  gazabo  that  was  pinched  with 
you  for  scrapping  seems  to  have  been  the  goods  after 
all.  He  'phoned  to  his  friends,  and  he's  out  at  the  desk 
now  with  a  roll  of  yellowbacks  as  big  as  a  Pullman  car 
pillow.  He  wants  to  bail  you,  and  for  you  to  come  out 
and  see  him." 

"  Tell  him  I  ain't  in,"  said  James  Turner. 


THE    END 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS 

GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY   ACIL  TY 


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A    001  424  967    6 


